


The World Ain't Sherwood Forest

by Buffintruder



Category: Catch Me If You Can (2002), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternative Universe - FBI, Character(s) of Color, F/M, Implied/Referenced Racism, M/M, catch me if you can au, civil rights era au, happy barricade day, this should be perfectly understandable to people who haven't seen catch me if you can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-04-08 09:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19104817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buffintruder/pseuds/Buffintruder
Summary: Enjolras ran away from home to face the world on his own, hopefully making it a better place in the process, knowing little of his vast future. Using his charm and wits, he cons his way into becoming a pilot and lawyer and steals over two million dollars through fake checks. With the FBI Agent Javert on his tail, how much longer can he stay free?Or: A Catch Me if You Can au with more Civil Rights





	1. Prologue: Don't Wanna Wait For the Cops to Arrive

**Author's Note:**

> This has been more or less finished and just sitting in my Drive for almost a year, so I figured I should probably just edit and publish it, and barricade day seemed like a good chance.
> 
> With Aaron Tveit playing the main character of Catch Me If You Can on Broadway, and with the obvious parallels between Hanratty and Javert, I pretty much had to write a Les Mis au. This is based mostly off the musical version of Catch Me rather than the movie or book, but you don’t have to be familiar with any versions of the story for this fic to make sense. All chapter titles come from songs in the musical.
> 
> Since this has Les Amis in the ‘60s, I had to put in a bunch of civil rights stuff, so this is almost as much of a civil rights au than a Catch Me au.
> 
> While I did a lot of research for this fic, I didn’t grow up in this time, nor am I most of the races depicted here, so I apologize if I get any details wrong or misrepresent something. I made up and assumed a lot of things about how airplane companies and the FBI work, so please don’t take any of this too seriously.
> 
> Shout out to my high school that put on such a good show of Catch Me that it inspired me to write this (even if it’s taken me over two years to actually finish).

**September, 1965**

It was too early in the morning for the airport to be properly crowded, but even at the crack of dawn, the terminals were far from empty. Tourists and businessmen walked through the waiting area, some hurriedly, others leisurely. Suitcase wheels rattled across the carpeted floor as parents scolded unruly children and travelling groups chattered in a dozen languages. Every few minutes, an announcement echoed over the intercom, the words blurring into the background.

There was no sign of the FBI.

Enjolras peeked over the top of his newspaper again a few moments later. He kept a bored look on his face, projecting the persona of someone taking a break from a dull story to glance around at the equally uninteresting world around him.

There was no sign of Grantaire either. 

He casually checked the watch on his wrist, the picture of a tired businessman wondering how much longer he had to wait before he could board his flight.

Any minute now, Grantaire would arrive, and they could catch some flight out of there, go anywhere they wanted, to some forgotten corner of the world where Enjolras wouldn’t be recognized, where they could spend their lives in relative peace, without fear from the law.

Any minute now, the FBI could catch up with him and arrest him, crushing his dreams of a life of fighting injustice with Grantaire. Enjolras was pretty sure he had managed to get to the airport untraced, but the FBI were clever. They had almost caught him a couple times before, coming closer each time. This one could very well be the last.

Any minute now, Enjolras' life would change its direction, for better or for worse, and it all depended on elements that were now completely out of his control.

It was the FBI who arrived first, suddenly and without warning. One second, all was peaceful; the next, suited men rushed past him, the airport security on their heels.

“Guard the exits!” Agent Javert commanded. “Don’t let him get out of this one!”

Bystanders muttered nervously, not quite panicked, wondering who among them was wanted by the authorities. They edged away towards the edges of the room, trying to indicate with face and posture alone that they were innocent and just wanted to clear out of the way. 

From his position on a bench behind a potted tree, Enjolras remained hidden.

It was too late for him to run. They would notice if he did now. Enjolras hadn’t been spotted just yet, but he knew with a heartbreaking certainty that the possibilities of his ideal future had just become undone. There was nowhere in this airport he could hide where the FBI wouldn’t find him. They were too thorough for that. It didn’t mean there was no chance of escape, but it would not happen by prolonging his discovery.

Enjolras put down his newspaper and stood up on shaky legs. The young, freckled agent spotted him first.

“Freeze!” he shouted, pointing his gun at Enjolras. The people near him froze as well while the other FBI agents and airport security rushed closer to surround him. “Put your hands in the air where we can see them.”

Enjolras carefully complied, hiding away his pounding heart behind a casual mask. The people around him scrambled away once it was clear who was being targeted. He knew that this was the best way forward, but facing down the people he had run from for so long, it didn’t feel like it.

The agent who had chased him across the country for the past year and a half stepped out from behind the others. His face was as stern as ever. “Enjolras Williams. Or William Jones, Will Enjolras, René Williamson, or whatever else you’re going by these days. We’ve caught you at last.”

“Javert,” Enjolras replied, meeting his eyes. “Don’t you think all this is a little extreme for just me?” He smiled winningly at Javert, using every ounce of his charm that had fooled so many others.

Javert glared at him, piercing through his bravado. “For you, nothing is too extreme. You’ve outwitted and outran us far too many times for us to take any chances.”

“I’m not a dangerous man,” Enjolras laughed, though it sounded fake to his ears. “Most would even call me a fairly weak  _ boy _ .” He had only turned eighteen a few months before, after all, though he knew that emphasizing his youth would not win him sympathy from Javert.

“You’ve stolen over two million dollars through forged checks, impersonated a pilot and a lawyer, and evaded the FBI for nearly two years, escaping at least two direct encounters,” Javert said without missing a beat. “I’d say you deserve every gun pointed at you right now.”

Enjolras' mind raced, trying to find any excuse that would prolong his capture until he could find some opportunity to escape. It would be too late to find Grantaire now, but if he could get away, he could contact Grantaire later and arrange to meet up somewhere else. He just needed to buy some time. He needed a distraction.

“Okay,” he conceded. “I can see I’m not going to win this argument. You always stick to the rules.”

Javert raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“Could I get one final request as a free man? I just want to know how after all this time you finally managed to catch up with me here.” He didn’t expect Javert to waste a second before putting him in cuffs, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

“Your friend,” Javert said.

“What do you—?” Enjolras started, thrown off by the unexpected response. He was interrupted by a shout as someone tried to dive through the circle of security guards and agents towards him.

“Enjolras!” Grantaire cried as he was stopped by a bald agent. He tried to escape the agent’s grasp but the hold on him was too secure. Enjolras felt his heart stop as his last remaining hope to run away with Grantaire fell. Getting himself out of this situation seemed unlikely but possible, but Enjolras didn’t have the faintest idea he could free Grantaire as well. Even as his own chances of escape had shrunk, he had really thought that Grantaire could get out of all of this fine.

“We followed him, and he led us straight to you,” Javert answered, nodding at Grantaire.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Grantaire said. “I would never sell you out!"

“I know,” Enjolras responded softly. He hadn’t wanted to drag Grantaire into this mess. Grantaire deserved better than all the trouble Enjolras had brought him. Turning back to Javert, Enjolras pleaded, “Grantaire won’t get into any trouble, right? He hasn’t done anything illegal. He didn’t even know the truth about me until the night you showed up.”

“He’ll receive whatever justice he deserves,” Javert said simply. “As will you.”

Enjolras snorted angrily. To capture him, that was fine. He didn’t want it to happen, but at least he deserved it. He didn't trust the justice system to treat Grantaire fairly, and he hated that Javert didn't seem to see that.

“What are you still fighting for?” Javert asked. “You’re trapped and surrounded by the FBI. You can’t go back to your life in Georgia. Grantaire and your other friends have led us right to you, and you’re wanted on every continent. There is nothing waiting for you!”

“I’m fighting for freedom,” Enjolras said, because it was the only thing to say. It was what he had been fighting for, in one form or another, since the very beginning of his criminal career just under two years ago, when he first ran away from home.

The normal teenager he was before all this had started, living with his parents and going to school everyday, seemed so different from who he was now that Enjolras couldn't help but wonder how everything had lead up to here.

He could remember another airport, another fraught situation. That one had been easier to get out of, but maybe there was something he could pick up from it, or from any of the dozens of other times he had talked his way out of trouble. In his two years of conning and grifting, there had to be something that would help him here. If he just searched his memories for other times he got out of bad situations, maybe he would be able to figure out how to get out of this one. There was too much at stake for it to happen any other way.


	2. A Stewardess is Trained to Please

**February, 1964 (17 months earlier)**

If someone had told Eponine ten years ago that she would become a flight attendant, she would have laughed in their face. Even now that it was her reality, it still seemed a bit of a ridiculous fit. Eponine was not naturally a friendly and helpful person. Being trapped in a tiny space for hours on end, surrounded by strangers that she had to greet politely and smile at and be flirted at and sexualized and insulted for poor pay was hell. 

With all the competitiveness and difficulties in getting a job as a flight attendant, it wouldn’t have been worth trying, if Eponine had wanted to have that job in any normal circumstances. She definitely wouldn’t have been hired in the first place if she hadn’t convinced Montparnasse to use one of his contacts to get her a job at the Pan American Airlines.

However, there was a key advantage that made it all worth it. Her constant motion would make her harder to track down, and as a flight attendant, Eponine could pick up all of her bags and move across the country, or even across the world at a moment’s notice, with nobody batting an eye at a young woman travelling on her own. 

She could even bring her brother Gavroche with her for free, though she would need to be careful to hide the fact that she was his only caretaker. Flight attendants were not allowed to have kids.

It had been three years since she first ran away from her parents and their gang, and they hadn’t caught up to her yet, so it wasn’t super likely anymore that they would find her now. Eponine figured that they had given up actively trying to find her after about a week at most, but the risk of running into them or one of their associates by accident was too high.

Working as a flight attendant would not be a long-term plan, since she couldn’t be one once she got too old to look young and pretty, but Eponine hoped that the few years she had left would give her enough time to come up with something better.

Still, once she got adjusted to the work, it wasn’t all terrible. As trapped as she was inside the plane, in many ways, the job gave her more freedom. Every month, she could travel to a hundred different places she never would have been able to go to otherwise. She went to cities near and far, and brought back stories and treats home to share with Gavroche. 

There were also a few other attendants that she spent time around. Eponine wouldn’t quite call them friends, but at least she enjoyed working with them more than others and didn’t mind talking to them. These acquaintances were rare, since a large portion of white people tended to ignore her or treat her like dirt. Not all the attendants were white though, and Eponine found that she often shared an implicit connection with them, one of shared suffering and solidarity.

In general, Eponine was fairly satisfied with her life. Even though they had a convenient escape plan through her job, Gavroche and Eponine had lived in one place for over half a year without ever feeling the need to flee. There was something that could almost be called stability in her life, something Eponine hadn’t had since she was a child and was far too young to appreciate it.

“Miss Ahuja?” came a voice from beside her. It came out slightly mangled through an American accent, but all the consonants were there and in the right order, which was better than could be said for a lot of attempts.

Though Eponine’s true last name was Thenardier (or at least, that was the name her parents had used for as long as Eponine could remember. Given that she was relatively certain that she was Indian for as far back as anybody cared, it seemed a little odd for something French to be her parents true last name), she had adopted a false name so that she would be harder to track down. 

Eponine straightened up, taking her arm off the raised handle of her suitcase that she had been leaning on.

“Yes?” she politely asked the uniformed white man. His blond hair was covered by a pilot’s cap, which cast a small shadow over his face. “Do I know you?”

“I’m the co-pilot of the flight you’ll be on. I saw your name on the roster.” He had a New York accent, she noticed.

“Are you new here?” Eponine thought he looked familiar, but she knew she hadn’t ever flown with him before.

“I’ve been working here for about a month. William Jones.” He reached out to shake her hand. “Could you do me a small favor? It’s just that I’m a little busy right now, and you’re the only person here that works for the company and isn’t already doing something. I felt that asking a passenger would be in poor taste.”

Eponine glanced around the boarding area. None of the other flight attendants that were supposed to be on her flight were there yet. This wasn’t a huge surprise since Eponine made it a habit to always be early for everything—she had a higher chance of being fired if she messed up than her white coworkers—but Eponine had been waiting long enough that the others should have started to show up already.

“Of course. What do you need?” Eponine asked politely, even though she wanted to tell Jones that he should learn to do his own damn work.

“Do you mind cashing this check for me? I’ll need the money to pay for food and everything when we arrive in Vienna, but I left my wallet at home. It’s lucky I remembered to bring my badge, right? It turns out I get paid today, so I’m thinking that Lady Fortune is looking my way, but unfortunately, there’s been some trouble with the plane. Nothing to worry about, of course, but it’s enough to keep me busy enough that I can’t cash it myself. The nearest bank is fifteen minutes away.”

“Okay,” Eponine said, idly wondering if the forgetful-seeming man would notice if she took any of the money for herself. Part of her mind was already calculating how small the value of bills she should ask for at the bank for her to get away with keeping the most amount of money. 

Not that she would actually steal from him. The risk wasn’t worth it, and she was trying to separate herself from her parents who were exactly the sort of people to do that sort of thing. Eponine wasn’t in dire need of money anyway.

But the sneakiest side of Eponine, the part that was still the daughter of her parents, was occupied with a different puzzle. The tone that Jones used, Eponine noticed, was too smooth, too charming and apologetic. This was the tone her family used on the targets of their cons. Eponine knew it well; she had often used it herself.

“Thank you so much!” Jones said, looking the picture of a stressed man who was given cause for relief. He quickly wrote her name on the check. “You can take some of the money for your trouble. Say, five dollars?”

“Thank you, sir,” Eponine replied, taking the check from his outstretched hand. If Jones really was more than he appeared at first glance, she knew that even if she got all of the money back in quarters, Jones would still know if more than five dollars was missing. At least he valued her effort, instead of simply demanding it and expecting her to comply to his any wish. “Can I leave my suitcase here with you?”

“Of course. I’ll take it on the plane for you. And thank you again. You’re really helping me out here.”

“You’re welcome,” Eponine said. 

Walking briskly, she left the airport. Only after she was out of sight did she pause to examine the check that Jones had given her. 

Nothing about it gave any indication it was fake, but given the tone of Jones’ voice, Eponine was sure that it was. If a man like Jones was getting money from false checks, it would make sense that he wouldn’t want to cash them in person all of the time. 

The law agents would notice the bad checks sooner or later and start hunting him down. Even though it was unlikely for the bank tellers to remember the face of every person who handed them a check, if even a couple of them remembered a young, blond man showing up the day that a false check was passed, it would lead them a step closer to finding him.

Now the question was whether or not she should cash in the check. Eponine had accepted because there was no way to politely refuse, but there was some risk in cashing the check. If the authorities figured out that she was the one who used the bad check, it was possible that she would get in trouble for it.

There would be no evidence that pointed the rest of the checks in her direction, but even if she was cleared of charges, it would draw attention to her that she didn’t want. The chances of the false check being traced back to her were minute, but they were also high enough that Jones hadn’t wanted to do it himself.

Eponine could always tell Jones that the bank was busy and that she didn’t want to risk being late by waiting in line. She could just go outside, wait a few minutes and turn back, with nobody the wiser.

But she was curious. The check looked perfect, even to someone like her who was used to cheating and faking everything in order to get more money. It was very unlikely that anybody would notice that anything was wrong with it for days. Even if Jones wore no kind of disguise and openly cashed in a hundred fake checks, it would be unlikely that anybody could connect the dots. This was merely a safety precaution that had very low chances of backfiring on her. 

And all this only applied if the check was actually fake, which Eponine was pretty sure about but had no actual proof.

The risk was small, she decided, and the benefit of being in this more powerful man’s good graces could be useful. Since she had already walked most of the way to the bank while deciding, she figured that she might as well cash it in.

The transaction itself was relatively simple and quick. By the time she returned to the airport, the other flight attendants were already there, getting ready to board. Jones was in the cockpit, talking with the captain, but when Eponine poked her head in, he saw her and ended his conversation to meet her in the aisle.

“You have the—?” Jones started. He had taken his cap off, and somehow he now looked far more familiar. The skills Eponine had learned from her parents were fading if a hat had made someone unrecognizable to her. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Wordlessly, Eponine handed him the money, minus five dollars.

“Thank you so much! I’m in your debt, Miss Ahuja.”

“It was nothing.” Eponine gave him her friendliest, most polite smile. Her current job had given her plenty of opportunities to perfect it. 

She turned back down towards the entrance of the plane where she would be greeting the passengers as they entered. While she waited for boarding time, she tried to place him from her memories. She was certain she had seen him before, and it only took a couple of moments to figure out from where. 

A few weeks ago, she had seen a teenager talking to one of the pilots at this very same airport. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen or so, but somehow, he looked and sounded almost exactly like Jones. 

Thinking back to that teenager, Eponine was no longer surprised that she hadn’t recognized him at first. With a hat covering his hair, without a pair of glasses, and a more commanding stance and way of speaking, Jones seemed almost like a different person. This man was even more of a mystery. 

When Eponine had seen the teenager, he had been interviewing the pilot for a school newspaper. She hadn’t purposefully paid much attention to it, but there was nothing else going on nearby, so her attention had automatically drifted in that direction.

The interaction only perked her interest when the teenager asked to take a picture of the pilot’s badge. It had seemed to Eponine rather irresponsible of the pilot to let the teen do so—a forgery could easily be made with a picture like that—but she hadn’t thought too much about it at the time; it wasn’t really any of her business, and besides, her background had made her more paranoid than she necessarily should be.

Now that she knew the teenager was a co-pilot who had introduced himself to her by a different name than the one he had given the pilot, it wasn’t hard to connect the dots. Eponine supposed it was a good thing that ‘Jones’ was only the co-pilot of the plane instead of the pilot, since it was unlikely that he knew how to actually fly a plane.

It was potential blackmail material, Eponine thought, and then immediately regretted it. Blackmail was the type of thing her parents would do, and she wanted no part in that. Still, if there was a fake pilot passing bad checks at the company she worked for, it might be nice to have that information at hand, just in case.

Her thoughts continued circling around him and what exactly she should do with her discovery as the plane took off, before they drifted off into thoughts about the other people on the plane. The flight itself was long, dull, and utterly exhausting, but at least it wasn’t eventful. The worst trips were the exciting ones, where something went wrong, either with the plane or with one of the passengers.

After going through customs and leaving the airport, Eponine and the rest of the flight crew went straight to the hotel rooms reserved for them. It was nearly dawn in Vienna, but after a couple years of working as a stewardess, Eponine had grown used to erratic sleep schedules and was too tired to care much. It was late evening in her home in Seattle anyway.

Despite her exhaustion, there was one more thing she needed to do before she could collapse onto her inviting bed and sleep. 

After placing her bags on the bed, Eponine slipped out of the room she shared with another stewardess and made her way back downstairs to one of the phones in the lobby. There was a phone in her room, but she didn’t exactly want her roommate to overhear her conversation.

She was the only adult looking over Gavroche, and though he could probably take care of himself just fine, Eponine tried to call and check on him whenever she was away. It would just be something quick, she told herself, trying to keep her eyelids from drifting together. Tell him the flight had been fine, ask him about his day at school, and then she could go to sleep.

The phone rang twice before Gavroche answered.

“Eponine?” Gavroche said urgently, and she instantly knew that something was very wrong.

“Are you all right?” Eponine demanded, alertness fighting its way through the fog of her weary mind.

“I’m safe,” Gavroche replied, making more of an effort to keep his voice calm. “I saw  _ them _ when I was walking home from school. I don’t think they saw me though.”

Eponine didn’t need to ask who ‘they’ were. She clenched the phone tighter. “Are you sure? How many of them were there?”

“I saw Babet and dad. There might’ve been more I didn’t see. I turned my face away and went down an alley, but they weren’t even looking my way. They might not be here for us.”

“I’m not taking that risk. Have you—”

“I already packed,” Gavroche replied.

“Good,” Eponine said, trying to calm her racing heart. They had never come across their family since they left, but they had plans for this. She knew what to do. Gavroche knew what to do. It would be fine.

“But there’s a problem...”

“What?” Bad scenario after bad scenario piled up in Eponine’s mind, each less likely than the last, but all just as terrifying.

“Workers are on strike. The trains aren’t working here.”

Eponine bit back a curse. There was more than one way to get him out of the city, but walking would be too slow, and could even be dangerous in the cold February weather. She knew nobody with a car who could drive him out.

She tried to remember what her schedule was. She didn’t think she could be in Seattle for several days; her flight schedule took her back to New York and then to a few other cities before she would get a couple days off.

Even if she claimed a family emergency (which wouldn’t be a lie) and took time off to fly straight back, it would take at least another day and a half to get there, which would be too long. There wasn’t enough money with Gavroche for him to buy a plane ticket himself. 

There had to be another option, but her mind was working too slowly and she came up blank. Panic and exhaustion did not make for a productive combination.

“Eponine?” Gavroche asked when she gave no response. “It’ll be fine. There’s food here to last me a couple days. I can just stay in the apartment.”

“What if they  _ are  _ after us? They might already know where the apartment is. You can’t stay there.” Eponine’s thoughts, sticky and slow to form, finally landed on an idea. If she had been less tired, a better option might have been revealed, and Eponine hated that she couldn’t face this problem with the best of her capabilities, but she knew that this was the best she would come up with in this state. “I have an idea. I just need to see if it can work. I’ll call you in half an hour or so.”

“Alright,” Gavroche said dubiously.

Eponine placed the phone back in its receiver and walked to the receptionist’s desk. 

“Excuse me?” she asked in German. Her knowledge of multiple languages was a huge help as a flight attendant. It was maybe the only reason she had actually got a job as one, since Montparnasse’s contact had refused to hire her unless she was actually capable of doing the job.

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me where Captain William Jones’ room is? He left his...” she hesitated, struggling to find the proper word. “Badge? on the plane and I must return it.” Her German was not good enough to elaborate on the situation, but this would have to be enough.

Since Eponine was still in her uniform, she knew it was more likely she would be believed. It would have to be enough, because she didn’t have any badge to show as proof. The receptionist nodded and took out a book, flipping through the pages. “Room 209.”

“Thank you,” Eponine said.

A minute later, she rapped sharply on Jones’ door. Eponine did not have to wait long before it opened.

“Miss Ahuja?” Jones blinked at her in surprise. “...Do you require something?”

Without responding, Eponine slipped past him into his room. Nobody else was there because apparently pilots got their own bedroom. Jones’ face turned more bewildered and wary once she closed the door behind her.

“I know the check you gave me to cash was a fake,” Eponine stated without preamble. Jones was a very good actor because he barely even looked alarmed, only confused. That or Eponine’s conclusions were terribly wrong. “I know you aren’t really a PanAm pilot either.”

“I think you must be mistaken,” Jones said. “That really was my paycheck, and I assure you, I was legitimately hired.”

“I saw you as that ‘high school reporter,’” Eponine said, unimpressed with the man’s excuses. “I saw you take the photo of the captain’s id card. I’ve grown up with enough criminals to know when I’ve seen one, so you better cut the denial or I’ll get one of the higher ups to really go over your credentials and company paperwork. We’ll see how sound your backstory truly is.”

It was a bluff; Eponine doubted that anybody would listen to her and believe her enough to check, but she summoned all her fear for Gavroche and herself and all her anger and hatred towards her parents and their lot, and she turned it into a stone-cold mask of immovability. 

This sort of blackmailing felt like stooping down to her parents’ level, something Eponine had promised herself that she would never do, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and at least Eponine knew that Jones was no innocent bystander.

Jones’ hand twitched, but otherwise he gave no reaction to her threat. “Do you require anything?” he repeated.

“Do me one small favor, and I’ll never tell a soul about your crimes,” Eponine promised. “As long as you don’t try and get me into trouble for this or try to hurt me in any other way.”

“Alright,” Jones said.

Eponine gave him a suspicious look. He had agreed too readily, despite not knowing what she was asking for or having any guarantee that she would keep her word. Either he was newer to this crime business than she had thought, or he was playing on a different level than she was and had several plans to put everything in his favor again.

“I want you to get me a plane ticket for the soonest flight from Seattle to New York, and then pay for and reserve a nearby hotel room for a week.” Eponine finally managed to startle a reaction out of Jones.

“That’s it?” he asked in surprise. “You don’t want a cut of what I steal or a better job or a million dollars or anything?”

“I’m not going to continue to hold this over you and extract demand after demand from you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Eponine snapped.

“No! I just—who is this for? Since you obviously don’t need to go from Seattle to New York right now.”

“Not your business,” Eponine said briskly. “You gonna get to it or what?”

“I’m going to need to make some calls.”

Eponine sat herself down on a chair as he picked the phone up from the receiver and dialed a number. Even though she had meant to watch him for any tricks, she found it difficult to focus on anything. Worry and drowsiness made time pass in a bleary haze, and after an indeterminate length of it, Jones turned back to her, pulling the phone away from his mouth.

“If you want this ticket in a hurry, I can’t just mail the recipient the ticket. I need a name and description of your... friend? Whoever you’re getting the ticket for. So the people at the airport know who I want them to take to New York.”

“Can’t you just give me a secret phrase or something that my ‘friend’ will use to identify themself?”

Jones shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that. Your friend is going to need some proof of identity as well.”

Eponine hesitated. “Does school id count?”

Jones raised an eyebrow but nodded.

“His name is Gavroche Ahuja. He is twelve years old. He’s Indian—India Indian, not Native American—with black hair a few inches long. He has a round face with a pointy chin and some freckles.”

“A brother?” Jones asked. Eponine glared at him, but she knew that Jones already had his answer. His tone had softened, and the way he now regarded her implied that he had guessed the rough idea of what was going on.

Jones repeated the information she had given him and after a few minutes, he hung up and dialed another number to make a hotel reservation. Some time later, he finished that call too. Jones handed her a paper on which he had periodically jotted things down during his phone conversations.

“These are all the details your friend will need, including the time of flight, hotel address and name, and all of that. I hope whatever’s going on works out for the two of you.”

“Thank you,” Eponine said.

“And you will uphold your end of the bargain?”

“I will.”

“I appreciate that.”

“A stewardess is trained to please,” Eponine snarked before she could stop herself. She caught a startled smile spread across Jones’ face before she could fully turn away to leave. 

Once she had left the room, she allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. Gavroche had a way out of Seattle. Her next flight, in the evening of the same day, would be back to New York. They could meet and start over from there. They would be safe for a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The money in the sixties was worth about eight times as it is now, so Enjolras giving Eponine five dollars in the beginning would be worth about $40.  
> For some historical background on the Thenardiers, when India was colonized by Britain, some of the men joined their army. After serving or while on leave, they could go to other British colonies, including Canada. However, Canadians were very racist toward them and didn’t want them to stay (despite technically not being allowed to ban them), so some moved to the US, though that wasn’t much better. In this au, Thenardier joined/tagged along with the British army when he was pretty young, mostly to loot fallen soldiers like he does with the French army in the Brick, and ended up bringing his wife to America where they had kids


	3. The Key to Life Is That It's What You Dream

**March, 1964**

The door to the newspaper publishing office burst open, startling Combeferre into dropping his pen. The intruder was white and blonde, of an indeterminate but definitely youngish age. Combeferre watched him warily; when white people came here it was not generally because they were happy with this place.

“Good morning,” the man said cheerfully, the New York in his voice marking him as a native. “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you mind if I stay in here for a couple of minutes?” He moved from the doorway, inwards toward the desks, as if already invited in.

“What for?” Combeferre asked dubiously. At least he didn’t appear to be one of those angry racists that occasionally dropped by, but Combeferre still didn’t know this man’s intentions.

“Hiding. From an ex-girlfriend. Saw her on the street and didn’t want the awkwardness. There was a messy break up, you know how it is.”

Combeferre, having never felt the inclination to date anyone, did not know how it was. He glanced up out the window, but the only person he could see out there was a uniformed cop stalking down the street. “At six in the morning?”

“It’s a long story,” the man said. “I’m Will Enjolras. What is this place?”

He didn’t know. Combeferre couldn’t explain what exactly about this situation was so funny, but he had to hold in a laugh.

“This is the publishing office of the Friends of the Rainbow, a newspaper for people of all colors.” Combeferre carefully watched for a reaction.

“You mean like with all the Civil Rights stuff going on?” Mr. Enjolras asked, sounding polite and curious and nothing else.

“Partially, yes,” Combeferre replied. “One of this paper’s purposes is to muster support for protests and marches and such.”

“What are the other purposes, if you don’t mind me asking?” Then Mr. Enjolras paused guiltily. “Or, if you’re busy... I’m interrupting your work. I’m sorry. They—she, I mean—my ex-girlfriend—is probably gone by now. I’ll just leave if you want.”

It was Mr. Enjolras' readiness to go, with his body already angled towards the door, that made Combeferre decide to talk to him. Mr. Enjolras knew he was intruding and didn’t automatically expect for Combeferre to bow to his whims. This seemed like someone who might listen with an open ear instead of only paying attention to select details that would support his limited worldview. Besides, Combeferre liked to be able to educate; it was partly why he had joined the paper in the first place.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Combeferre said. “I’ve got some time. I’m Combeferre Korematsu.” He reached out his hand across his desk to shake, which Mr. Enjolras took.

“Thank you, Mr. Korematsu,” Mr. Enjolras said politely. He chose to use Combeferre’s last name and attempted to pronounce it correctly, respect that not everybody might give him. Another sign that he at least wasn’t a horrible person.

“This newspaper has many different parts to it,” Combeferre explained. “There’s the news, which covers all kinds of Civil Rights events, both national and regional. People can also write in to talk about issues that they find important and want support for, or to tell their own stories.”

“What do you mean by stories?” Mr. Enjolras asked.

“It’s a pretty broad category,” Combeferre said. “Anything from people’s lives that they want to share, really.”

“That seems interesting,” he said, looking thoughtful. “It’s good to learn about other people’s experiences.”

“Meet ups are planned and announced, which can be either social or political,” Combeferre continued. “There’s also pieces about culture, articles to educate and articles to comfort and give solidarity. There are also advertisements from places that are owned by people who aren’t white. Most of the newspaper is race related, but we try to recognize that people can belong to multiple groups and talk about some of that too, like social class, gender, disability, sexual orientation—”

“Sexual orientation?” Mr. Enjolras asked, surprised. “That’s not too controversial?”

“We do get criticisms for being too liberal,” Combeferre admitted, vaguely wondering if Mr. Enjolras had a personal reason for stopping him there rather than at any other part. Some people thought that focusing on the sexism that women of color faced from men of their same race divided the community, so even that was relatively controversial. “But we don’t believe in doing things halfway here. Though I suppose it does mean that we have less readers than is ideal. We can only hire a few full time workers.”

“Could I buy some copies if I’m curious? Or would that be intrusive?”

“People of color are too diverse for this newspaper to be created to be able to be read by people with only one kind of experience, so it wouldn’t be incomprehensible to you,” Combeferre said, even though that didn’t really answer the question. He wasn’t entirely sure how to; this was not solely his newspaper, and he had not discussed this issue much with the other editors.

“Okay,” Mr. Enjolras said in the tone of voice that showed he was expecting more of an answer.

“We write knowing that white people will be part of the audience,” he said, because that was true. “And that’s not a bad thing because we get more support and they get to hear more perspectives. But it’s not written for white people, so don’t expect it to sooth your ego or anything.” 

Maybe the last bit was harsh, but there was a reason so few white people bought their newspaper. Even the more liberal white people who supported desegregation and Martin Luther King’s peaceful ways of protest often refused to acknowledge the deeper problems and felt personally attacked when people criticized the injustice inherent to the system. This newspaper was one meant most primarily for people of color, which meant that there was lots of space for them to voice their grievances against white people. Combeferre couldn’t expect that it was something most white people wanted to hear.

“I understand,” Mr. Enjolras said, his voice earnest and sincere.

“Why do you want to read this?” Combeferre didn’t want to be suspicious, but he had come to learn that not all things that seemed good actually were.

Mr. Enjolras considered the question carefully. “I heard once that the best way to help with any issue is to hear what the people most affected by it have to say and listen to how they want it fixed. Racism is a problem that doesn’t affect me, so I would like to seek out more information so I can better myself and better the world around me in any way that I can.”

“That’s a good reason,” Combeferre said. It was a good answer, and Combeferre wondered what it said about him that he couldn’t decide whether to relax or be even more wary. He tried to take the same approach himself for other issues that he was not a part of, after all. But Combeferre didn’t want to live his life mistrusting everyone who might be imperfect, so he decided to give Mr. Enjolras the benefit of the doubt.

“Why did you join this newspaper if it pays so little?”

“I actually helped start it,” Combeferre corrected, unable to stop himself from flashing a pleased smile when Mr. Enjolras looked back at him, impressed. “I had some friends in college who wanted to change society. We were some of the only colored kids in the school, so we stuck together. I’ve been interested in ending racism since birth, probably. I was born in a Japanese internment camp, you see. My first breath was taken as a prisoner for merely sharing ancestry with the people this country was at war with.”

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Enjolras said.

Combeferre shrugged. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to receive that kind of apology. “Anyway, we agreed to start a newspaper to get our voices and the voices of people like us heard.”

“How many of you are there? You said there weren’t a lot,” Mr. Enjolras said. 

Combeferre counted them off on his fingers. “Jehan started this newspaper, and when trying to find a job as a chemist didn’t work out, I joined full time. So far, Cosette is the only other full-time employee. Courfeyrac was part of our group too, but he’s a lawyer now, so he only writes articles every now and then. There’s also Feuilly who joined us later on, once this newspaper started gaining more popularity, though he also has another job. Plus there’s a few others who contribute every so often.” 

He stopped, abruptly realizing that he rambled on more about his friends than a stranger who didn’t know any of them probably cared to hear. He could have just listed them off without explaining everything.

But Mr. Enjolras was still listening attentively. “Sounds like a broad group. A chemist and lawyer? What articles are they writing now?”

“Well, Jehan’s writing an opinion piece about the Nation of Islam,” Combeferre said, bringing up the first thing he could think of. Educating someone without fighting them was such a great feeling, he decided. He could talk about this newspaper and related issues all day to Enjolras, if he was willing to listen to it all. “Because, you know, Malcolm X decided to leave it a couple weeks ago. His mother’s African American and his dad is from Lebanon, and both are Muslim, so he has an interesting perspective on that. Feuilly’s writing about the history of the Brotherhood of the Sleeping Car Porters because he knows some people involved with that.”

“They’re the African American union that almost marched on Washington during World War 2, right?”

“Yeah!” Combeferre said. “Those ones. They made Roosevelt pass a law to forbid race-based discrimination in some work areas. I’m surprised you knew that. Are you interested in history?”

“It was my favorite class in school until I realized how biased it all is,” Enjolras confirmed.

“History is written by the victors, I suppose,” Combeferre said, with a wry twist of his mouth. “It’s actually quite fascinating what you can learn about a time period by how they interpret history.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked.

“Well, for example, there’s the Reconstruction era. Before the former Confederates started getting the right to vote again, but after the 15th amendment passed, African Americans briefly had a huge amount of voting power in the south, right? So they elected African American senators and governors and such. For a long time, history books taught that they were all corrupt, but more recently, it’s starting to be shown as a good thing and definitely a more nuanced thing. Just by reading a history book, a person could tell that this period of time is heading closer towards racial equality.”

“Huh,” Enjolras said, frowning thoughtfully. “I didn’t even think of things like that, but that makes sense. I wonder what future generations will think of the way we teach history now. I guess I hope they see it as horribly biased and bigoted, because that’ll mean they’re so much better.”

Combeferre smiled. “I think I like your perspective on things.”

“Always gotta strive for improvement, right?” Enjolras said, grinning sheepishly.

“I try to make that my motto,” Combeferre said. “I like to think that I do that everyday by working here and both learning from others and teaching them.”

“It sounds like a great job!” Enjolras said.

“What do you do?” Combeferre asked. He honestly had no idea what to expect. Enjolras’s age and class made it likely to be a low-level office job, but he couldn’t imagine Enjolras doing something like that.

“Oh, I fly airplanes.” He shrugged. “Not nearly as important, I suppose, but I enjoy it quite a bit.”

Combeferre found the idea of being thousands of miles above the ground to be a terrifying thought and couldn’t imagine doing it on a regular basis, but he supposed that a job like that had its perks. “You go to a lot of places?”

“Quite a few,” Enjolras said. “I’ve just recently come back from Greece, actually.”

The front door opened, drawing Combeferre’s attention towards the front. Enjolras followed his gaze and turned around to face the person coming in. With small pink and white flowers woven into his waist-length dreaded hair, Jehan stood in the doorway, gazing curiously at Enjolras.

“Nice flowers,” Enjolras said, no trace of sarcasm or irony in his voice.

Jehan beamed. “Thank you! I picked them from the trees on my walk here. Who are you?”

“I’m Will Enjolras. I came in here by accident and got into a conversation with Mr. Korematsu here.”

“Jehan Prouvaire,” he said, coming closer to reach his hand out to shake. “Call me Jehan.”

“And you can both call me Will,” he said, taking Jehan’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Jehan sat down in a chair next to Combeferre’s desk. “So what conversation did I interrupt?”

“I think it was more of a general introductory conversation than one of anything in particular,” Combeferre said. “I explained what we do here, and then we started talking about various other things.”

“Ooh, sounds fun!” Jehan said brightly. He turned to Will. “It’s always nice to meet people who are interested in the paper. I’m the one who started this newspaper business.”

“So I’ve heard,” Will said, smiling back. “It’s a very neat place you run.”

“Thank you! I thought that if you want you want the world to improve, then the best thing for it is to go out and create the change you want yourself. So that’s what I did.”

“Dreams and hopes are how all great things start,” Will said.

“Though good planning and marketing certainly helps,” Combeferre added dryly.

Jehan grinned. “I have to admit, I might have had the original idea, but without Combeferre, it would have remained just an idea.”

“I suppose that like in most things, balance is key,” Will said. “Though I think my talents might lie a bit more in dreaming than carrying it out, and I’m not sure I’m doing as much as I could.”

“Friends and allies are what take useless dreamers and directionless planners and bring them together to create something out of them. Individuals strengths are all very well, but they rarely do much without community,” Combeferre said. He smiled at Jehan. “We were both lucky enough to find the right people to help us turn our hopes for a better future into reality.”

Jehan smiled back. “Do you have many good friends, Will?”

He hesitated before shaking his head. “Not really. No.”

“Maybe that’s your problem right there,” Jehan said. “Maybe you could do more if you had people with a common cause.”

“I suppose I’m not very good at finding them.”

“Get involved in things you’re passionate about, and you will find others passionate about the same thing,” Jehan advised. “It’s a good place to start, at the very least, because common ground is the basis of all good friendships. Take my friend Courfeyrac. We went to the same university, so I had seen him around for years, but we didn’t become friends until we ran into each other at a local chapter of the Mattachine Society.”

Will frowned. “Is that... is that the gay club?”

Jehan nodded. Combeferre wondered if this was the last straw for Will, the point at which he decided that they were all too much and turned back out the door. He had pegged Will otherwise earlier, but Combeferre did not always judge people correctly. There was a difference between being interested in something and wanting to actually talk to people who were a certain way.

“Oh, I’m gay too!” Will said, and the slight tension that had creeped into the room eased back out.

“I don’t think I’m gay, but I’m pretty sure I’m not straight either, so there’s your common ground,” Combeferre said.

“That and our shared desire to improve the world,” Jehan said.

“I would be honored to have people as cool as you as my friends,” Will said, his smile turning softer.

“We aren’t being selfless in this offer of friendship,” Combeferre said with a very straight face. “How else are we supposed to add another body and set of talents to the support of our cause if not by befriending every stranger that walks in here by accident?”

Jehan snorted. “That’s how we got Combeferre. Tricked him with our friendship into joining this group.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose that my strong morality and desire to help the path of progress had anything to do with that?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jehan said primly.

Combeferre shook his head, unable to keep an affectionate smile off his face. “See this mockery you’ll have to put up with now, Will?”

“I think I can handle it,” Will said, grinning. “I should probably get going though. Could I leave my number with you?”

“Oh, sure,” Combeferre said, searching through his desk for loose scraps of paper. He handed Will one piece of loose paper and a pen from his cup, and kept one of each for himself. “I’ll give you mine too, so you can tell us where to send you copies of our paper. I don’t imagine you stay in one place a lot as a pilot.”

“Yeah, not really,” Will said, writing down his number. 

“You fly airplanes?” Jehan asked.

“Well, co-pilot them mostly, since I’m still pretty new.”

“You’ll have to tell me more about your travels next time,” Jehan said.

“I look forward to it,” Will replied. He exchanged his slip of paper with Combeferre’s and then stood up. “Thank you for our conversation. I hope to see you again.”

“Safe travels,” Combeferre said, as Jehan waved.

“He seems like a decent person,” Jehan said, once Will had left.

“He does,” Combeferre agreed. But then his thoughts drifted toward the fishier parts of Will, the details Combeferre had been tucking away to examine at a later time. “But there is something a bit suspicious about him.”

Jehan looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Will came in here to avoid running into an ex-girlfriend, or at least that’s the excuse he gave me.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“First of all, he’s gay—”

“Which would make running into an ex-girlfriend extra awkward,” Jehan pointed out.

Combeferre shook his head. “I wouldn’t disbelieve him if it was just that, but having that kind of encounter this early in the morning? When I looked outside, I saw a police officer walking by, and I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but...”

“I see your concern,” Jehan said. “But this isn’t the first time we’ve befriended someone who has broken the law and might have some reason for wanting to avoid the police.”

“I know,” Combeferre said. It was why he had even considered talking to Will for as long as he did. “And Will does seem like a nice person. I’m just... cautious. And I thought I should let you know too.”

“Fair enough,” Jehan said, a troubled look of consideration settling across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one part of the story where I would have really loved to delve into all the cool stuff going on during the Civil Rights era, but unfortunately, I can’t have Combeferre talk about all of it without this without getting super exposition-y and long.
> 
> Rainbows weren’t really associated with being gay until the late ‘70s, and I’ve seen racial diversity being compared to rainbows before then. Which isn’t to say that any of the Friends of the Rainbow are straight, but it is why “rainbow” is in their name when they focus on race related things.
> 
> Combeferre’s last name is taken from Fred Korematsu, probably the most famous of the people who challenged Japanese internment in the Supreme Court.


	4. There's a Home Where You Can't Go

**December, 1964**

Outside, the harsh wind drove the cold rain diagonally against the sides of the towering skyscrapers. The few people who were out this late at night were lit from the lights of festive signs and decorations, huddling in their coats as they briskly marched by.

Inside his dry, warm, well-lit office, Javert paid no attention to the grim weather beyond the walls, focusing only on his paperwork.

“Sir?” asked the youngest agent, the only other one left in the building. “Uh—”

“Yes, Pontmercy,” Javert replied without looking up from his work. “You may leave. Everyone else has already gone, and you aren’t required to remain here this late.”

“Thank you, sir,” Marius said. There were a couple footsteps, and then a pause. “Are you—Are you going to leave now too? It’s past midnight, so that makes it Christmas day now, and Valjean is planning on having a feast this evening, and I thought you would be coming? ...Are you coming?”

Javert gritted his teeth. They were in the FBI building still, for goodness’ sake! Did this boy have no tact, calling a wanted (though presumed dead) criminal by his true name?“ _ Fauchelevent _ will understand if I don’t come.” 

“Are you sure?” Marius asked. “Because I think, uh, Fauchelevent was really—”

“ _ Yes _ , Pontmercy. I’m sure.” Five years ago, Javert had considered the holiday to be time better spent working and nothing more. Now, it wasn’t so simple, but he didn’t exactly want to intrude on another family’s festivities. Valjean, Cosette, and Marius deserved to have this holiday to be with their true family: each other. As kind and welcoming as they were, Javert wasn’t really part of that. Besides, there was still paperwork to do.

“Alright then,” Marius said uncertainly, picking up his coat. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” Javert replied gruffly. After a moment, right as Marius was stepping out of the room, he added, “Tell Fauchelevent that I’ll stop by tomorrow with presents.” Having dinner together every other Saturday was a tradition for the four of them anyway. Coming by then wouldn’t be something out of the ordinary. He wouldn’t be interrupting their family time.

“Sure thing!” Marius said before he finally went out the door.

The office was empty now except for Javert. He took a moment to enjoy the quiet before returning back to his work. There was only the sound of rain outside now, fierce and unrelenting.

Part of Javert wanted to go to Valjean’s dinner. He knew that all three of them would be perfectly welcoming and kind if he did. They had been all the other times he had come by. But he wouldn’t really belong there, especially not on such a day that was so centered around family, and the last thing Javert wanted was to push his way into somewhere he didn’t fit, where there was a layer of disconnect between him and everybody else. He had done that enough in his professional life without doing it in his personal life as well.

An inch of finished paperwork later, the phone began to ring. Javert got up to answer it, curious as to who was calling so late on today of all days.

“Is this Mister Javert?” a familiar voice on the other end asked, a hint of New York in his accent.

“You!” Javert growled.

“Hello,” said the man who had stolen millions of dollars through check fraud, the man Javert had been trying to catch for nearly a year. “I wanted to apologize about our meeting in L.A.”

He sounded sincere, but he was also one of the best liars Javert had ever met. The man had even fooled Javert.

The week before, when Javert thought he had finally caught up to the crook in a hotel in Los Angeles, he burst into the room, finding only a young blond man in the bathroom. Claiming to be a Secret Service agent, the man said he had already caught the thief and was checking the room for evidence. When Javert asked to see his identification, the man handed his wallet over so easily, that Javert hadn’t thought to actually check it. It was only after the man left that Javert opened the wallet, discovering that the person he thought was a Secret Service agent was, in fact, the criminal he had been chasing.

“You’re sorry,” Javert repeated, raising an eyebrow even though no one was around to see him. “A criminal is sorry for his freedom.”

“I’m not sorry about getting away,” the criminal admitted. “But you seem like a decent person. I’m sorry I made a fool out of you.”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me.” Javert didn’t believe a single word coming out of this man’s mouth. His pride still stung too much for that.

“What are you doing at your office so late on Christmas Eve anyway? I didn’t expect to catch you here. You don’t have somewhere better to go?” The criminal’s voice was smooth and friendly. Even through the phone, Javert could hear why so many people had trusted this man, how he could get away with so much without anybody suspecting him of anything.

Javert snorted. “ _ You _ clearly don’t.”

“Yes, but I’m a criminal on the run from the FBI.”

“Well, I’m part of the FBI, trying to catch criminals like you.” That wasn’t a good comeback, and Javert knew it.

“So you don’t have a family either?” the man asked, his voice softer now.

“Not really,” Javert said. He hadn’t had one for a very long time, though sometimes he wondered if Valjean was trying to change that, or if that was just wishful thinking. Explaining to somebody he was trying to arrest that the closest thing he had to a family was another criminal he once tried to catch, his adopted daughter, and her boyfriend seemed preposterous.

“No parents or anything?”

“No.” Javert’s parents, Romani immigrants from France, hadn’t been part of his life since he was a child. Javert had never met his father because his mother was arrested after his conception. She had been released soon after his birth, but several years later, Javert was taken from his mother for reasons that were never quite explained to him and placed into an orphanage. 

“Do you have a family?” Javert asked to fill the silence and direct the conversation away from himself.

“Not one I can go back to.”

“Because of your crimes or because of something else?” Javert asked.

The silence over the phone line was answer enough.

“I see,” Javert said, his voice almost involuntarily softening.

“You’ve been through something similar?” There was something wistful in the man’s tone, making him sound younger than he was. “You don’t get along with your family?”

“In a manner,” Javert said because it was the most truthful response he could give without elaborating. For a long time, he had hated his mother for her criminal ways, for giving him up as a child, for burdening him with a race and heritage and language that his society would never accept. After being brought to the orphanage, he had made an effort to pass as white. Javert had found life easier that way. Hiding his parentage and past was the only reason he had risen so high up in the ranks, but it had taught him to despise it as well.

“Did you ever reconcile?”

“As much as I could,” Javert said. His interactions with Valjean and Cosette had helped him come to the realization that society was likely more at fault than his mother was. Romani people, with their stereotypes of thievery and untrustworthiness, were often arrested for simply being conveniently located. He wondered now whether she had actually committed the crime she had been accused of. Even though he had never seen her again and so was unable to apologize to her, Javert did feel ashamed at having internalized the criminal Romani stereotypes and misdirecting his anger at his mother. It was the closest thing to an apology he would get. 

“Do you wish to reconcile with your own family?” Javert asked.

There was a long moment of silence. “I’m not sure. And no offence, but I don’t think I want to share the intimate details of my life with you.”

“You were the one to bring it up,” Javert said, feeling mildly disappointed that his vague plan of opening up slightly to the criminal in order to glean hints at his life and motivations hadn’t worked. He wasn’t too surprised, however. It was odd that this criminal would let himself come even this close to such personal topics. Javert wondered why the man had brought it up in the first place.

“That’s on me,” the criminal conceded.

“You didn’t call me to apologize,” Javert realized suddenly, a possible explanation fitting into place. “You’re lonely and had nobody to talk to but the guy who’s trying to arrest you!” He let out a humorless snort at the irony of it. It would be funnier if he wasn’t in the same position. They were so different in every way imaginable, yet here they were, sharing a lonely moment.

On the other end, there was an embarrassed silence. “I did mean my apology.”

“Sure,” Javert drawled. “Most criminals regret showing up the guy trying to catch them.”

“I’m not a bad person!”

“Two million stolen dollars would say otherwise.”

“Most of which I gave away. I’m trying to  _ help _ the world.” The man’s voice was full of conviction and earnesty.

“You think you’re some kind of Robin Hood then?” Javert scoffed, trying not to reveal his surprise. He hadn’t thought much of how the stolen money was spent. Not that it mattered. A crook was a crook, and on that scale, intentions didn’t matter.

“But aren’t you trying to do the same?” the criminal asked softly. “In your own way, you’re trying to improve the world. You put away the bad guys, right? And the world’s safer for everyone.”

“Then you can’t expect me to simply let you go,” Javert said. For a criminal, the man had a rather idealized view of the law system. Having been inside of it for decades, Javert knew it was less than perfect. It was prejudiced and unfair towards anyone it disagreed with, and many within it abused their power, even though it was still better than the alternative. Justice and order were above all things, but Javert had come to learn that in an imperfect society, those things were not as infallible as he wanted them to be. Justice, an ideal, was perfect; the people who served it were not.

“Of course not.” There was a moment of quiet, before the man said, “Do you think next Christmas it’ll be like this again? The two of us at the phone, you still trying to catch me, me still trying to get away, and both of us still lonely?”

“I certainly hope not,” Javert replied.

“Yeah, I don’t fancy being lonely like this for another year. But I suppose this isn’t as new for you?”

“And it’s probably not going to change any time soon either,” Javert said, even though sometimes he thought otherwise, like when Valjean smiled at him with warmth in his eyes or Cosette hugged him in greeting or Marius spoke to him without a trace of the awkwardness he carried around people he didn’t know well. “I’ll be here still by the phone tomorrow, and the day after.”

There was light laughter on the other end. “Is that an invitation?”

“Perhaps.” But it would be for the sole purpose of getting more information from this man, not at all for reasons relating to loneliness.

“I might even take you up on it.”

“Why don’t you stop stealing?” Javert asked, curious. “Surely you must have had some kind of life and people you loved before you turned to a life of crime.”

“Yes, I did,” the man said quietly. “But why don’t  _ you  _ quit this life? Surely you could find a wife and get some kids easier if you weren’t a government agent? Isn’t that the ideal we all must strive for?” There was something ironic in his tone. 

“I don’t want that kind of life,” Javert said immediately, his thoughts bouncing back to Valjean and Cosette and Marius guiltily. He knew, to some extent, that they weren’t trying to exclude him. It was Javert who had turned away from them, prevented himself from getting too close. Out of fear, maybe, though Javert couldn’t say of what exactly. Sometimes, he wondered if they could become his family in the only definition that mattered if he let them. He thought he might prefer that to both a conventional family and to being alone.

“Neither do I,” the man said, which Javert didn’t think was a fair comparison. Not wanting a wife and kids wasn’t the same as stealing millions of dollars.

“And I don’t know how to stop,” Javert continued. “It’s the only thing I know how to do that makes a difference.” He had been at it for far too long to do anything else. The negative portrayal of Romani people as seedy fortune tellers and cheating wanders had made him so desperate to prove himself better than that. To prove himself white. Maybe if he had been white, he wouldn’t have felt the need to believe so strongly in the law. But even now as he questioned the system he had spent so long upholding, he didn’t know how to ditch it entirely without also leaving behind who he was as a person.

“Yeah,” the voice on the phone said. “I guess that’s why I can’t stop either. Maybe stealing money’s less than legal, but it’s all I know how to do.”

Javert could never agree with the man’s methods, but for a moment, he was certain that they were sharing the same feelings of being trapped in the road they were on, of the intertwined doubt and conviction in what they were doing. Something that nobody else in his life could ever understand. “Why do you have to do something at all?”

There was a moment of consideration from the other end of the phone. “Once, I was made to feel utterly helpless and alone, like there was nobody in the world that cared about me, not even the people that should have cared the most. Like the world itself hated who I was so much that nobody in it could possibly feel anything else toward me. I’ve always wanted to do good, but after that, I don’t think I can rest until I know that nobody ever will feel like that again.”

Javert thought about being torn away from his mother and how he chose to turn his back on his past because being a part of it only brought him isolation and fear. That feeling had been so terrible that he not only made himself a lie but also tried to become part of the force that created the isolation and fear in the first place. It wasn’t hard to understand the desire to never let something like that happen to anyone again.

Once, not too long ago, Javert had let another criminal go free.

The moment he had that thought, Javert startled away from it, as if suddenly waking up from a dream. Valjean had been an entirely different story. A white man would not have gotten the same sentence as Valjean, a black sharecropper, did. They would be left with a fine, maybe a night or two in jail. They would not be sent to prison for years. Other than escaping parole and faking his identity (which he only did so he could have the second chance at life he should have been given), Valjean had done nothing wrong after his initial crime. 

It had taken him a long time, many Valjean-induced existential crises, and lots of research and paying attention to learn how much race and class and other factors had unfair effects on people in the eyes of the government and law enforcement. After that realization, Javert came to the conclusion that what human error had caused, human error must fix, so he had let Valjean go.

The criminal he was talking to now was different. He was a white man, likely of a middle class background, charming and charismatic, born with every advantage. He wasn’t a victim of complex racial and economic structures that forced him to take food to live and then punished him too harshly for it. He was definitely a criminal by any measures. There was no getting around stealing millions of dollars like there was stealing a loaf of bread.

“Hey, Javert?” the criminal said, breaking the long pause. Javert wondered if he had  forgotten to answer a question or had missed something, but the criminal only said, “Look out the window.”

“What?” Javert snapped, startling out of his thoughts.

“Just do it.” There was something childishly mischievous in the criminal’s voice.

Suspiciously, Javert approached the window, telephone cord stretching behind him.

“Merry Christmas,” the criminal said, before hanging up.

Rolling his eyes, Javert glanced down at the street below him. It had stopped raining by now. The criminal stepped out of a phone booth and into the glow of the streetlights, waving up at him before darting down the corner.

Javert growled to himself but gave no attempt to chase after him. By the time he could get down there or call for backup, the criminal would be long gone. Javert turned back to his desk, placing the phone back in its receiver. The criminal was here in this city, and if Javert worked fast enough, there was a tiny possibility he could find a lead on him.

There was something about the vulnerability in the man’s voice while he was talking about his family and his loneliness that bothered Javert. It made him sound younger. What reason did he have for exposing his emotions like that, or even faking it? And what reason did he have for risking himself by calling from a location so close to the FBI offices?

Suddenly something clicked in Javert’s mind, something absurd yet undeniable. The criminal was much younger than Javert had taken him for.

“He’s a kid!” Javert was so surprised that he blurted his thought out loud. The beardless face, the superhero comic book that Javert had found in a hotel room, the youthful glee when he asked Javert to look out the window, it all made a certain sense. Stripped of his confidence and the mist of falsehood that the criminal shrouded himself in, it was clear that he couldn’t be much older than a teenager.

The criminal was a kid. There would have to be a missing child report somewhere, some school he was skipping out on, maybe a family that wanted him back. All Javert needed to do was find a list of missing kids, rule out the ones that were obviously not him, and track down the kid’s family.

It was the biggest lead Javert had since L.A.


	5. (Interlude) I've Looked Into So Many Lives But Never At My Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has many flaws, some of which he realizes in this chapter

**December, 1964**

Heart racing, Enjolras dashed through the wet streets of New York, still warm from his excitement and the wine he had drunk at the PanAm Christmas party an hour ago. 

He wasn’t entirely certain why he had asked Javert to look down and see him, other than because he could and because he knew he wouldn’t suffer serious repercussions for it. After all, Javert had already seen his face, and he wouldn’t have the time to catch him before Enjolras got away.

After passing through a few intersections, Enjolras slowed to a more reasonable walk, scarcely minding the sprinkle of rain still falling. The night was so beautiful, in the way that cold, wet ones were: sharp and glimmering and empowering. Over-confidence was dangerous, but for this moment, Enjolras let himself be carried away by his pride and certainty. 

Earlier that evening, he had felt small and isolated, holding secrets that no one in the world knew other than a clever flight attendant who he hadn’t caught sight of in months, and an FBI agent who had given Enjolras his card. If he wanted company, there was only one option and Enjolras had taken it.

To his surprise, Agent Javert was there and seemed just as lonely as he was. “Misery loves company” was a phrase Enjolras had heard a dozen times but had never realized its truth. It was beyond relieving to talk to someone in a situation surprisingly similar to his own. Then on impulse, Enjolras had waved to Javert, and the look on his face through the window had been so delightful, and the risk was so exhilarating, that every scrap of negative feelings felt washed away.

Enjolras was on his way back to the airport where he would make one final flight to somewhere hidden until the FBI backed off a little. Everywhere in the world could be his next destination, and he had never felt so free. For now, life was wonderful and the options seemed limitless.

This late at night in this part of the city, the streets were empty, save for one old homeless man asleep near his cardboard sign. With nobody paying Enjolras any attention, he grinned foolishly to thin air. Right now, he didn’t have to act the responsible adult. He was merely Enjolras, a seventeen year old boy with more skills and power in this moment than most people got in a lifetime. Money would flow endlessly through him from the hands of the rich to the hands of the people. He was doing good for the world, and he was doing good as a state of existence, and on this clear perfect night, everything felt right.

“Seriously?!” a boy’s voice demanded, shattering Enjolras’s fantasies.

Enjolras whirled around, spotting the kid standing up from behind a trashcan next to where the old man was sleeping.

“It’s Christmas Eve, and it’s freezing, and you can’t even spare Mabeuf a second glance and a dollar or two?! Fuck rich people, honestly, parading about, pretending they care about the giving season or whatever the fuck they’re calling it.”

“Gav...” the old man started, blinking awake. “Leave it be. Not everybody wants to help.”

“Well that’s not right! Look at him in his fancy suit! Why does he deserve that wealth?!”

Enjolras felt like he had been smacked. A thought flitted through his mind, so quickly pushed away that Enjolras could almost pretend it had never been there. He  _ wanted _ to pretend it had never been there. But it had been, and for half an instant, his first instinct to the boy’s accusations had been defensiveness. That of course he deserved the money because he was using it for good.

So much for his ideals, Enjolras thought. There he had been, thinking about how the money he stole was going to help the world, just as he was ignoring someone who clearly needed it. 

He hadn’t even paid enough attention to read the damp cardboard sign with black lettering asking for a bit of spare change in this season of kindness. And then, for the barest of moments, he had even felt attacked, as if he had a right to any of the money he possessed, as if he was  _ entitled _ to it more than another. And wasn’t that the problem with capitalism, with getting richer, with having money, that Enjolras had promised himself he would never succumb to?

Enjolras knew, with sudden certainty, that this wasn’t the first time he had thought something like this. How long had he been falling into this way of thinking, that the greater good was more important than taking a few moments to help individual people? Why hadn’t he realized it until a child literally shouted it to him on the streets?

“I don’t,” Enjolras said. “I don’t deserve this wealth.”

The boy looked surprised before immediately becoming suspicious. “You gonna do something about that?”

Enjolras walked back towards the pair, searching through his pockets for anything he had. He pulled out a few bills and coins, adding up to perhaps $20 or so. “Here. You need this more than I do. I’m sorry it isn’t more.”

Mabeuf stared at him in surprise. Enjolras could see him visibly swallow down his pride and take the money. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“I hope you stay warm,” Enjolras said, because he didn’t know what else to say. He knew he couldn’t imagine the humiliation of being forced to ask strangers for money to live, much less how much worse it would be to have someone only change his mind because someone else yelled at him. He turned to the boy. “You’re right. I’m sorry for being a jerk.”

“You better be,” he said fiercely, though he still looked at Enjolras with uncertainty.

“Do you—Do you need anything? Because that’s all I was carrying with me, but—”

“Nah, it’s fine. My sister was between jobs for a bit and we couldn’t afford rent, but we’re just waiting for the paycheck to come. Why’d you change your mind so fast?”

“Because you’re right,” Enjolras said. “I don’t deserve this money. It’s not really mine in the first place, or at least, it shouldn’t have been mine.”

Mabeuf and the boy gave him a confused sort of look, and Enjolras panicked a little, hoping that he hadn’t given too much of himself away. He wasn’t sure whether or not they could figure he was a thief from that information. “Well, Merry Christmas!” he said, and walked away, wondering if there was anything he could have done to make the situation even worse. It didn’t feel like it.

Money was power, and power corrupted. Enjolras had always known this, but he had thought he could fight it and rise above it if he kept his mind focused. It turned out that focusing on those loftier ideals was what caused him to nearly forget his original motivation. He would have overlooked individuals for the bigger picture. 

Once people started caring more about their goals than the actual people those goals concerned, it always went downhill from there. Enjolras recognized the signs; he had studied the history of revolutionaries who were driven mad with power in order to avoid their fate. It hadn’t worked.

Perhaps this had been a slip up, something he could correct now that he knew it was there, but maybe this was only the start, and if he continued down this path, it would only get worse. 

That scared Enjolras more than anything else. He could fight other people, but it would be impossible to fight against his own self. Enjolras didn’t want to risk that.

After everything that happened with Javert catching him in L.A. and seeing him here, Enjolras wanted to lie low, but he had originally planned to go back to his current lifestyle once things settled down some. Maybe it would be better to never go back. There had to be other ways of changing the world than stealing money. 

It was funny; he had been so convinced earlier that he was doing the right thing, that this was the only thing he could do. He still didn’t see anything inherently wrong with it, but he no longer thought he could continue doing it while keeping good intentions. That was why it was so terrifying to realize what he had just done. What if he was corrupt even deeper than he realized?

Enjolras didn’t know how to make himself useful in this world, how to use his already existing talents and positions of power to make a difference in any way other than what he was currently doing, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t learn some other way.

The entire world was open to him now, but with everything the Friends of the Rainbow wrote about, Enjolras thought he knew where he wanted to go next. There were protests and sit-ins and boycotts and all sorts of civil disobedience in the deep south to end segregation. That seemed as good a place as any. It was time for him to learn a better method of supporting those who were screwed over by society. He needed to find a better way of making himself useful that wouldn’t lead to him becoming everything he was trying to fight against.

Jehan and Combeferre had sung praises of working in groups to create change, so maybe he should give that a try. If nothing else, having other people around him could keep him in check. If he had friends who knew what he was doing now, maybe they would have pointed out the warning signs before now.

From what he remembered of the flight schedule, there would be a plane headed to Atlanta, Georgia the next morning. That seemed like a good place to start, somewhere he could stand still for longer than a couple days and learn how to be helpful. It was time for a new life.


	6. Though I Tried, I Couldn't Hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for homophobia and shitty guardians

**January, 1965**

“This family will be our criminal’s, I’m sure,” Joly said confidently, turning back from the front passenger seat of the car to face the other FBI agents.

“If I had said that, then that prediction most certainly would be wrong, knowing my luck,” Bossuet laughed. “What makes you think that  _ this _ missing child is our check forger?”

“The last name,” Joly explained.

“The last name?” Marius echoed. He had assumed that Joly’s guess had been playful banter, not a substantiated guess. This was only their first house of the day, and the team was always more optimistic before an exhausting day of talking to people could really get to them.

“It’s Williams. How many times has the kid used Will or some variation of it on his fake ids?”

“Or it could be this guy fourteen names further down on the list, Will Farthingson,” Bossuet said.

“Enough talk,” Javert said from the driver’s seat. “We’ve arrived.”

The house they had pulled up to clearly belonged to someone with a fair amount of money. It was grand, with elegant architecture and a well-kept lawn. There were neatly arranged flowers beds which probably added a bit more color to the scene in warmer seasons, and a few neatly trimmed hedges around the edges.

The agents spilled out of the car, Joly stretching his arms out behind him. It had been about an hour’s ride, but they had gone on many of these recently. Ever since Javert had figured out that their crook was a kid, they’d been going to the home of every child who had gone missing in the past two years in the state of New York.

Bossuet had pointed out that the New York accent might have been faked, a purposefully misleading trail. Javert had argued that they had no better leads, and that he wasn’t going to search the entire country for missing kids if he could help it.

Marius was still stuck on the fact that the criminal was a  _ kid _ which seemed unlikely and impossible, considering all the talent and experience he must have needed in order to do the things he had done. But Marius was still rather new to this job, and Javert’s reasoning was sound, so he trusted his superior’s judgement, even if it seemed unbelievable.

When Marius was in his late teens, he had still been living with his grandfather, not even questioning the things he had been taught all his life. Even after he found the truth behind his father and all the horrible things his grandfather had done and how wrong his ideology was, Marius hadn’t left. He had been an adult by that point, but he still stayed until he was kicked out, too fearful of the unknown world beyond his home.

If Javert was right, this kid had run away from home, becoming an FBI-wanted criminal with a Robin Hood complex, at an age when Marius had been still stuck in peaceful complacency.

While the rest of the team was still getting out, Javert had gone to the door of the house and was glaring at them impatiently. Once they had all gathered around him, Javert knocked.

The door opened after a few moments, revealing a blond man in his late forties. His hair was graying, and there was a sharpness to his face, highlighted by the concern he showed as he looked at them.

“Hello? Is everything alright?”

“I’m Agent Javert of the FBI.” He flashed Mr. Williams his badge. “I’m here to ask you some questions about your son.

“Of course, come in!” he welcomed, smiling brightly at them, though he looked a little worried. “Is there some new lead on him? Is he alright? Something bad hasn’t happened to him, has it?”

“He’s hiding something,” Joly murmured in Marius’s ear. “I don’t know what, but he sounds too fake.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that yet,” Javert answered over Joly. “May I see a picture of your son?”

“Sure,” Mr. Williams said, puzzled. “I’ll need to find one.” He gestured to the sofas in the airy living room. “Make yourselves at home.” He left the room, climbing halfway up the stairs. A white brunette, presumably his wife, met him there, and they paused for a moment to quietly talk.

“They share some physical resemblance with the criminal,” Javert muttered, looking towards the Williams. “Though it is difficult to know for certain.”

“Something’s up,” Joly whispered. “Why don’t they have any pictures of their son in the living room?”

As the agents seated themselves on the sofas, Mr. Williams returned. “My wife is getting some pictures. Perhaps you could explain more to me while we wait? Why do you need a picture of him? If you’re searching for him, don’t you know what he looks like?”

Marius watched as Joly and Bossuet exchanged glances with Javert, clearly debating how much information to give. Mr. Williams also saw them, and the look on his face grew more nervous.

“It’s likely nothing,” Bossuet said, trying to be comforting. “We’ve been to dozens of houses, trying to figure out if this cr—this person we know is their missing son, and it hasn’t been any of theirs so far.”

“Well, tell me this. If this boy you know is my son, is he... Is he unharmed?” The concern in Mr. Williams’ voice seemed genuine to Marius. Whatever Joly thought he might be hiding, the man cared about his son and he didn’t know his son’s current condition.

“Yes,” Bossuet said, hesitating only for a very short moment.

At that moment, Mrs. Williams returned. “I found some photographs. Here’s one of the missing child posters that we put around town. I have a picture from his last yearbook too, in case it helps to have another perspective.” Though she spoke her words with the confidence of someone who was fluent in a language, she bore a light accent.

“Just one of these pictures is sufficient,” Javert said, reaching to take the flier.

“But thank you for your consideration,” Marius added.

“This is him alright,” Javert said. Though his voice betrayed no emotion, his eyes glinted in victory. “Enjolras Williams,” Javert muttered, as if testing the sound of the name of the criminal that he had been chasing for so long.

“You pronounced his name correctly,” Mrs. Williams said in surprise.

“I figured you were French from your accent,” Javert explained. “So I pronounced it in a French way.”

“Êtes-vous français aussi?” she asked, which Marius’s high school French told him it meant,  _ ‘Are you French too?’ _

“Oui,” Javert replied. “Ou au moins, mes parents étaient français. Je suis né ici.”  _ ‘Yes. Or at least my parents were French. I was born here.’ _

“Huh, woulda pegged you for Italian,” Mr. Williams said. “Of course, then I’m sure you wouldn’t be the respectable officer you seem to be. Nasty lot, those Italians.”

“Yes,” Javert said. It was only because Marius was looking for it that he noticed how tense Javert sounded when he responded. Though he didn’t know any details, Marius had been a part of enough race-focused conversations in the Fauchelevent household to be pretty sure that Javert’s race and ethnicity were more complicated than just ‘French.’ 

“What happened to our son?” Mrs. Williams asked, just as concerned as her husband had been. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“I’m afraid so,” Javert responded.

Before he could continue, Mr. Williams interrupted, “What kind? Is he alright? Did he break the law? That boy is clever. I’m sure he’s giving you quite the run, eh? I’ll pay for whatever damages, if you just bring him back home to us,” he pleaded.

“Please, we have the money,” Mrs. Williams chimed in.

“I don’t think you do,” Javert said. “He’s stolen over two million dollars.”

Enjolras' parents stared at him in shock for a long moment. Marius saw Joly and Bossuet exchange a look that was a little too full of pity to be called amused.

“He’s done what?!” Mr. Williams exploded.

“I can’t say I’m that surprised,” Mrs. Williams sighed. “He was always a tricky one.”

“You’ll understand that I can’t return him to you,” Javert said. “You may be wealthy, but I know that you aren’t  _ that _ rich.”

“Oh, but why not?” Mrs. Williams begged. “He’s still a child. Why can’t you return him to us? We’ll watch him carefully, make him work to pay back the money he stole, whatever you want.”

“I’m sorry ma’am,” Javert said stiffly. “It’s up to the law and the courts, not me. Now, the reason we came to find his parents—”

“Well, damn the law!” Mrs. Williams hissed. Everyone looked at her in surprise. “He’s only seventeen!”

“When he’s stolen that much money, age cannot excuse it,” Javert said. “He’ll get sent to a juvenile prison, of course, if we catch him before he’s eighteen. The court may go easier on him because of his age. But right now, he’s still out there, robbing people of their money. He needs to be stopped. This is the best thing for Enjolras. For all of society.”

As far as they knew, Enjolras had not passed any fake checks in the past month, ever since they almost caught him in L.A. He probably wasn’t actively hurting society in anyway currently, but Marius did not point this out.

Mrs. Williams looked at him skeptically, but didn’t say anything.

“It wouldn’t be all bad,” Mr. Williams tried to soothe his wife. “At least we’d know how he is. We could visit him.” Marius didn’t think he looked entirely convinced of what he was saying.

“As I was saying,” Javert started again, “we came to you to seek out any information on your missing son. It’s clear that you haven’t had contact with him for a while, but if he ever shows up here, I would like you to call this number.” Javert gave them a card with his phone number on it. “If you alert us, and he comes willingly, his sentence may be lessened.”

“You can keep your card, Agent,” Mr. Williams said bitterly. “He won’t be coming back.”

“Why is that, sir?” Joly asked.

“No reason,” Mr. Williams said immediately. It was an odd response, given too quickly for everything to be as it seemed.

Mrs. Williams glared at him. “All he means is that when Enjolras ran away, it was right after he got into a big fight with his father. And if he was going to come back to see us, don’t you think he would have done so already? We’ve heard nothing from him this entire time.”

They weren’t saying everything, Marius knew. He just didn’t know what they weren’t saying.

“Tell us more about your son,” Bossuet invited. “What kinds of things did he like?”

“You’re just asking so you can use that information to find him more easily,” Mrs. Williams accused.

Bossuet shrugged. “I never said I wasn’t.” 

Mr. Williams sighed. “As a child, he loved books. Some older stories, but comic books too. He was very handsome, had all the girls flocking to him. Decently athletic too, but not very into sports. He was more interested in superheroes, but then later all this ‘Civil Rights’ stuff started getting to him. 

“He was always sticking his nose into other people’s businesses. Wanted to give all his money to the poor. Now, I support giving money to the poor, just maybe not all of it. But he was a kid and had been reading too much Robin Hood, so...” Mr. Williams shrugged, as if to excuse Enjolras' actions. “Then somehow, he started hearing about all this new liberal crap, all those books and boycotts and protests, and...” What had begun as a description devolved into a rant. “He didn’t used to be like that. He was a good boy. I just want my son back, the boy he was.”

A wave of contempt ran over Marius. He nearly stood up to yell or shout at Mr. Williams, but he knew he couldn’t interrupt this. Marius merely gritted his teeth and glared at the man, who paid him no heed, and tried to tune out the rest of Mr. Williams’ words. 

Mr. Williams’ conservative views and the way he was frustrated at his son for not sharing them was bad enough. It was something Marius was opposed to, but he knew he couldn’t get into every fight. But the thing he had said, “I just want my son back, the boy he was.” His grandfather had said something very similar, once he found out that Marius had learned of his past and changed his political views. 

What his grandfather hadn’t understood was that he never  _ had _ Marius. Even back then, Marius had never been the person his grandfather had thought him to be, and he certainly hadn’t become a different person once he learned the truth behind his father and how his grandfather had forced them apart. What Mr. Williams didn’t understand was that Enjolras had always been the person he was. The changed views that came from learning more about the world did not mean a changed person.

Gillenormand, the son of a southern plantation owner, born in the aftermath of the Civil War, was more extreme than Mr. Williams, and Enjolras had a stronger reaction to his guardians than Marius did. Still, Marius couldn’t help but feel a small connection to Enjolras. Even though perhaps the criminal that he was chasing down wasn’t the best person to be sympathizing with, he almost admired the boy for his courage. Or at least respected him.

Still, something suspicion was tugging at his mind, perhaps set into motion by Joly’s comments. There was something off about what Mr. Williams had said.

Mr. Williams didn’t seem as harsh or domineering as Gillenormand was, so Marius couldn’t understand why he had claimed to have ‘lost’ his son when all that changed was political views. It would make more sense for a less prideful man like Mr. Williams to try to convince Enjolras to change his mind rather than believe him completely lost. And why had Enjolras run away and become a criminal if political views had been the only major point of conflict between them?

It didn’t make sense. Unless... maybe Enjolras was even more like Marius than he had initially thought. Their circumstances couldn’t be the same, but maybe Marius was not the only one who realized that some of the liberal side of issues were personal.

When Mr. Williams came to a pause in his rant, Marius said, “Do you think that your son is so liberal because he’s one of the people that some of them fight for?”

The rest of the agents turned to look at him, and Marius became very aware that he was the newbie. Maybe speaking up about his hunch wasn’t a good idea when he was so inexperienced with finding clues and solving mysteries.

“What do you mean?” Mr. Williams demanded defensively. “He’s a good white boy not black or a girl or poor or anything. How would he be a part of any of it?”

“You mentioned a book,” Marius pressed on. “Or books. Would one of them have been by Dr. Alfred Kinsey?” He had heard Cosette’s coworkers at the Friends of the Rainbow critique Kinsey’s book enough times to know it wasn’t the best book about queerness, but it was the most famous.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mr. Williams said. His sudden defensive posture told Marius all he needed to know. “I think I’ve told you everything about my son you could possibly want to know.”

None of the FBI agents stood up, though Javert shifted uncomfortably. 

“Might as well tell them,” Mrs. Williams said with a tired sigh. “It’s not as if we can tarnish his reputation any further, in the eyes of these lawmen.”

“Don’t,” Mr. Williams hissed, but he made no move to stop her as she continued.

“The night that Enjolras ran away, he got into a fight with his father after being discovered kissing another boy. My husband told Enjolras to leave until he changed his ways—but neither of us expected him to actually leave!” she added hastily as if that somehow excused Mr. Williams’ actions.

Marius’s grandfather had said something similar, the one time they had seen each other after Marius left. A few years ago, Marius had been caught up in a riot where he had first met Valjean and Javert. In the chaos, he had been so injured that he needed to go to the hospital, where they contacted his former guardian. Gillenormand flew from Louisiana to New York to see him, worried for the safety of his grandson. He had apologized for everything, and told him that he hadn’t meant for Marius to actually leave. Although Marius appreciated that Gillenormand did care about him, he knew he could never forgive the man for everything he had done, and his apologies felt a little hollow.

“My husband didn’t mean—” Mrs. Williams was continuing.

“This is enough,” Mr. Williams snapped. “They’ve heard more than they ever needed to know. Please leave immediately. I hope you find my son soon.”

Now that they had the information they wanted and they had directly been told to go, all four of them got up and made for the door. Mrs. Williams caught up to them at the doorway.

“My husband is stubborn and self-conscious,” she said. “But if you see my son, please tell him that we’re sorry.”

“We will,” Joly promised, and Bossuet and Marius nodded.

The car ride back was filled with discussion on their next move. They had information about Enjolras’ past, but that wasn’t directly relevant to what he was doing now. They went back and forth from idea to idea, digging up relevant details, switching to other possible methods of finding Enjolras, and then back to arguing the practicality of a previous point. By the end of the trip back to New York City, they had a dozen ideas of what to do next, though none of them were very good.

The rest of the day was spent in the office, and once it had finished, Marius was more than ready to go home to his bed.

Right before he left, Javert called out, “Pontmercy!”

“Yes?” Marius asked. 

“Tell Fauchelevent that I’ll be coming back a little later tonight.”

“Sure!” Marius replied. Valjean would be quite pleased with the news.

As he drove to Valjean’s house, where he now lived with Cosette, Marius contemplated the strange nature of Valjean and Javert’s relationship. He knew that Javert had been the cop tasked with tracking Valjean down when he broke his parole, but some stuff involving the riot Marius had been in had caused Javert to stop. Over the next three years, they even built something of a friendship.

Recently, around the turn of the new year, Javert had begun spending more of his free time at Valjean’s house. Even before then, he visited almost every other week, though Marius didn’t think that Javert would admit how close he had grown to them even to himself. 

At this point, Marius basically considered Javert to be his father-in-law, even though he and Cosette weren’t married yet, Valjean had never legally adopted Cosette, and Valjean and Javert weren’t in any sort of romantic relationship much less marriage, though they were no less close because of that.

Once he dropped Javert’s message off with Valjean and ate some food, he went to the bedroom he shared with Cosette. She had already returned from her job with the newspaper hours earlier and was in bed, though she was still awake. Marius changed into pajamas and curled up next to her.

“Cosette.” Marius loved saying her name, feeling the sounds of it slip out of his lips. Names might just be sounds, but this one was  _ hers _ , which made it the best set of sounds in the world.

“Hey, Marius,” Cosette said, grinning at him as she leaned her head towards his. “How was work?”

“The second half of the day was pretty boring, but this morning we finally found the parents of the check forger we’ve been tracking down for a while!”

“That’s great news!” Cosette said.

“We have a much better idea of who he is now. What about your day?” It was a simple question, one that they exchanged almost every evening. There was something comforting about its familiarity. It didn’t matter that most days, nothing amazingly exciting happened; Marius always loved to hear what Cosette had to say about anything. He could listen to her talk about a toenail for hours and never grow tired.

“Pretty fine. I talked to Jehan about putting your article in our paper, and he okay’d it like I knew he would.”

“The one about my father?” Marius asked, even though he knew the answer. 

Any stranger passing him by in the street would never think that Marius could have anything to say in a newspaper solely for people of color. Marius himself wouldn’t have thought that until a few years ago. 

It had been another of Gillenormand’s betrayals. Not only had Gillenormand kept him away from his father and taught Marius to hate the man by pretending that Georges Pontmercy had abandoned Marius of his own free will, not only had he let Marius’s father die before they met, not only had he refused to allow the possibility of Marius forming his own opinions of the world, he had also never let Marius know that his father had been half black, another of the many reasons why Gillenormand had hated Georges Pontmercy.

Coming to terms with that, especially with all of the racist sentiments he had been fed his whole life and even believed, had been hard for Marius. Suddenly everything Gillenormand had said about Georges took on a new light. Suddenly many things Gillenormand had said  _ to him _ made a different sort of sense.

Marius couldn’t shake off the feeling that Gillenormand only cared about him because he believed that Marius could ‘become white’ through integration in the white southern upper class. He didn’t want to know how Gillenormand would have treated him if he wasn’t able to easily pass. It probably would have meant that Gillenormand would have cast Marius out with his dad, once his mother died.

“Yes, that one,” Cosette replied, even though Marius knew she realized it was more of a rhetorical question.

“Are you sure that something like that fits in the newspaper? For most intents and purposes, I am white. I don’t look black, and I grew up thinking I was white. I don’t want to intrude...”

“Well, you’re not talking outside of your bounds, are you?” Cosette said. “You’re talking about your own unique experiences that a completely white person would never have experienced. If you were talking about what it’s like to have strangers judge you on your race, that might be too much. But you aren’t. It’s not supposed to be something that every person of color can relate to, or even something that many do. You’re just providing another insight to the world.”

“But if it’s only relevant to possibly one other person in the entire world who’s been in a similar situation to me and also reads the Friends of the Rainbow...” Marius couldn’t imagine that there were a lot of white passing people who had been raised to believe they were white.

“It’s not,” Cosette said. “I don’t have the same experience as you, but my birth father left my mother when I was young, and my mother had to let some other family take care of me while she found work.”

Marius quieted all the protestations that spilled through his mind. Cosette rarely talked about her childhood, so when she did, he listened.

“They turned out to be horrible, the Thenardiers, but she didn’t know that. They messed up my life as a child in a hundred different ways, and they still affect me today. One of the ways they did that wasn’t even that purposeful. They took away my connections to my mother’s Salvadoran culture. I forgot most of the Spanish my mother spoke to me because I never had the chance to use it or hear it. I didn’t spend enough time with my mother to learn stories or traditions or recipes or any of that from her childhood and country.

“It was only after Valjean took me away from them that I could try to relearn some of it. He learned Spanish right alongside me, so I could have someone to talk to. And I love him more than anything, but he’s not Latino, and he couldn’t give me back the connections I’ve lost. Currently, I can find community through the newspaper, or by reaching out to other Latino people in this city, but it’s not the same as growing up having it, and it never can be. And not that many are Salvadoran, so it’s not the same. I know my mom was at least part indigenous, but I have no idea which tribe or how connected she was too it. There’s so much I’m missing, and I’m always a bit of an outsider to my own people. So that part of your story, I can connect to.”

“Oh,” Marius said. He hadn’t thought of it that way.

“And I’m not the only one,” Cosette continued, her eyes fierce. “Others will find different parts that speak to them, and not everybody will, but that’s fine. What about others who look white and have to figure out what that means to them, like Javert? If you don’t want to share your story, that’s fine, but don’t refuse to write this because you’re worried it’s not right for this paper. We always need more articles anyway, so this helps us on more than one level.”

“You’re amazing,” Marius said, because that thought was always on his mind when he was around her, and now it was particularly in the forefront. Then, because of what Cosette had just told him, he said in Spanish, “Thank you for telling me that. I think that if you really think it’s okay, I might write that article.”

“Good,” Cosette replied.

“It’s funny you brought this up though, because I’ve been thinking a lot about Gillenormand today,” Marius said. “The check forger’s parents reminded me of him. And Enjolras—the check forger—reminds me a little of me.”

“Enjolras?” Cosette froze. “Will Enjolras?”

“Wait, you know him?” Marius said, slipping back into English in his surprise. Then he realized that the name wasn’t quite right. “That has to be one of his fake names. It’s a bit switched around.”

“He’s like Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s favorite white friend. I swear that a month’s worth of correspondence between the three of them could make up a novel. I’m like 30 percent sure that he has a crush on Feuilly. He shut down a guy who insulted Jehan once. We send copies of our newspaper to him all across the country.  _ Will _ is the guy you’ve been chasing for over a year? He  _ can’t _ be him. He can’t be, can he?”

“Is... is he blond?” Marius asked. He didn’t want the criminal to be someone who was that close to his friends. He knew that Cosette didn’t want it to be true either, but it wasn’t like Enjolras was a common name. Still, Marius would cling to the impossible hope a little longer.

Cosette nodded in disbelief. “Maybe they are the same person? I should have figured there was something up with the amount of money he donated to various charities and organizations. And that was just the stuff that went through us. I just thought he had rich parents. You said before that he told Javert that he gave away most of the money he stole?”

“Yeah,” Marius whispered, defeated. “His parents said he loved Robin Hood. You know, steal from the rich, give to the poor. And superheroes, saving the world from injustice and terror. He sounds like a great guy, other than the stealing over two million dollars thing.”

“What’s his real name?” Cosette asked.

“Enjolras Williams. I don’t think he’s the best at coming up with fake names. None of the other fake names that we found had Enjolras in them, but most of them had some variation of Will. Maybe he just really trusted you.”

“What are you going to do now? We exchange letters all the time. At least Combeferre does. We could lead you right to him, if you want,” Cosette said. Her tone was reluctant, and Marius could hear that even though she was telling him this, she did not want him to act on it.

“I can’t withhold information,” Marius said, torn apart by his conflicting morals. He didn’t want to arrest someone who his friends liked. He didn’t want to arrest someone who was doing more good than bad in the world. He didn’t want to arrest someone who he felt so connected to, with the similarities in their guardians. But it was his duty as a Federal Agent to follow the law.

“It would be easy to find him now,” Cosette continued. “He’s been in Georgia for all of this month. I don’t think he’s ever stayed in one place that long.”

“I don’t know what to do...” Marius muttered. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, already knowing that this question would haunt him for a long time. As long as he didn’t turn Enjolras in, he could always change his mind, but once he had done the deed, it would be too late to go back. 

He wondered how long he could put off the decision before that became a decision itself.


	7. There’s No Need To Roam ‘Cause Home Is Where You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is over a week late, rip. This is the chapter that honestly caused this fic to be published a year later than it otherwise would have been, plus I’ve been sick and adjusting to a 16 hour time difference, but hopefully it’s in decent shape now.

**September, 1965**

Despite his many skills and talents, Grantaire was an awkward man. He could paint art worth selling, but his handwriting was absolute shit. He could ramble on almost any given topic for hours without backtracking or losing his place or running out of steam (most did not consider this a  _ useful _ talent), but this didn’t mean that he was good at holding conversations.

When René Williamson, the love of his life, first kissed him, only a week ago, all Grantaire could think to say was, “This is illegal in at least two different ways.” 

René had looked so terrified, like he thought Grantaire would march up to the police and turn him in for kissing a black man in a state where it was both illegal for whites to marry people of any other races and for two men to have sex. Official laws said nothing about kissing, but that didn't mean there would not be unofficial enforcement. 

Afraid that he had ruined any chance of something happening between them, Grantaire had quickly explained that this was simply a fact, not a reason why he didn’t want to be with him, that he was in such a shock after having his dreams come true, that words had simply come out. Fortunately, René understood, and it hadn’t put a damper on things.

In the same manner, Grantaire was good at boxing and dancing, yet he still tripped over his feet in everyday situations.

René’s apartment, which Grantaire was currently in, wasn’t small, but it was hardly spacious either. This meant that when Grantaire jumped at a sudden noise, he sprung up straight into René’s desk, sending the piles of papers stacked upon it everywhere. The sound turned out to be just the cat, so there wasn’t even a good reason for the mess.

Feeling a little guilty, Grantaire scrambled to gather his boyfriend’s stuff up and place it back on the desk. Since René was a lawyer, most of the papers were legal files. The documents were largely still in order and had only fallen out of the folders they were supposed to be in, so Grantaire just had to figure out what belonged where. It didn’t take more than a few minutes to get through the bulk of the work, though he wasn’t sure everything had gone quite where they were supposed to go. But he could tell René that some of it might be messed up once he got home, and at least there wasn’t a huge mess any more.

At the bottom of the pile were a few sheets of paper that didn’t belong in any of the folders and looked far less professional than the rest of them. Curious, Grantaire took a longer glance at them.

_ Dear Will, _ one read. Grantaire wondered who Will was.

_ Here’s the latest subscription of the newspaper. We finally convinced Marius to publish his piece here! It’s actually quite moving! Who could have guessed that the man was such a good writer? I believe that Jehan was the most surprised; he was the one who had to edit all of Marius’ love poetry for Cosette, and that woman must truly love him to appreciate those poems—though if you ever meet him, don’t tell him I said that. _

_ Anyway, in your last letter you mentioned the tragic link between war and improvement of science. Obviously I would prefer to reach these scientific achievements with curiosity as the motivation rather than the desire to inflict more violence or out of the necessity of defense (and those things are often considered to be the same). However, I believe that science can still be appreciated for its own sake, as long as the information was not found in truly immoral ways. For instance, the space race. I disagree with the increased use of arms in the Cold War, but the idea of sending a human being to our moon or even another planet would be a dream come true. _

The letter continued on, discussing science and the merits of space travel before turning towards a rant against America’s involvement in Vietnam, which Grantaire only skimmed through. Still, he could tell that it was a response to something that Will had said or likely written before. It seemed more like a continued conversation than a speech. There was a bit more about a newspaper, and then the writer of the letter updated Will on the lives of several people that Grantaire had never heard of. He wasn’t sure why René had this letter since it clearly wasn’t written by him like Grantaire had first assumed it would be.

He skipped to the end, searching for some sort of clue.

_ And how are you doing? Courfeyrac is looking over my shoulder as I am writing this. He says to tell you that “if you back out of talking to Grantaire about your feelings for him, I’ll find a way to go down to Georgia and push you into doing something because I have no doubts of Grantaire’s inclinations when it comes to partners even if  _ _ you _ _ do.” (Though how he is so certain about a man he has never met, I’m not entirely sure). Either way, I wish you luck. _

_ Your friend, _

_ Combeferre _

This couldn’t be right. That didn’t make sense.

The Will that this letter was addressed to had to be René, Grantaire realized. René had friends in—Grantaire checked the address on the envelope that the letter had been sitting on top of—New York who knew him by a different name. According to the front of the envelope, this letter was meant for a Will Enjolras, yet it was sent to the address where a René Williamson resided. Unless René had a secret roommate who also liked Grantaire in a romantic way and happened to share the same political beliefs as René, there was something not right here.

Grantaire should have been more surprised by this. Strangely though, despite his initial confusion, he wasn’t. He had always known there was something René was hiding. This was just proof. 

It scared him a little that there was so much more about René he didn’t know. Even if this was more of a reminder of the fact than entirely new information, it was still an unsettling reminder that Grantaire sort of wished he hadn’t found. How could he know who René truly was if he was hiding something so huge? Surely whatever was going on was bigger than what Grantaire could pick up just from reading this letter. There was nothing that Combeferre had written to indicate the reason why René would have a fake name.

At the same time, René talked to his friends about Grantaire. Even if anything else could be fake about him, at least he probably was genuine in his affections towards Grantaire. Grantaire tried to take comfort in this, but he still couldn’t help but question everything that had ever happened between them, everything he had ever thought he had known about the man. Had he really run away from home? Was his favorite fruit actually strawberries? Was he even a lawyer? Was his real name Will Enjolras or René Williamson or something else entirely?

There were only a few reasons Grantaire could think of for why someone would go by more than one name like that and none of them were very good.

Grantaire needed help with this. It was already 7:30pm, which meant that Bahorel would be done with work and the Corinthe where they often hung out would be fairly empty. Grantaire would go there.

The Corinthe wasn’t supposed to be a Civil Rights meeting location, just a regular African American-run restaurant. However both of the servers who worked there, Matelote and Gibelotte, were fiercely involved in protests and such, and the chef and owner of the place, Mrs. Hucheloup, strongly supported the cause. So sometimes people would congregate there in the evenings.

Really it was mostly just the two waitresses, their friend Musichetta, Bahorel, and sometimes Grantaire, chatting about politics and their plans to get involved in protests and their hopes for the future, with other patrons occasionally joining in. Because nearly half of them worked there, they could only meet as a full group there once it was late enough for most of the customers to have already left, leaving the waitresses with more time between their work to stop by and chat.

Grantaire supported their cause, but he came more for the social aspect than because of any strong belief in what they were doing. If things all worked out as his friends hoped, the world would be a better place. He would benefit from it too, so of course he  _ wanted _ his friends to succeed in helping end segregation and racism. 

Even if he had been white, he liked to think he was a good enough person to not want others to suffer so needlessly, but he found it difficult to give much of his energy to something he knew so certainly would not change anything in the long run. Being around his passionate friends almost gave him a bit of faith in the world though, so he went where they did, even if he didn’t believe the things they said.

When Grantaire arrived that night, Musichetta was the only one of their group not at the Corinthe. He headed straight for the table Bahorel was sitting at. Matelote and Gibelotte were currently elsewhere, but there were more than enough chairs for all of them.

“Have you noticed anything strange about René?” Grantaire asked Bahorel immediately, before he even sat down. He didn’t know if he should still call this person René, since it likely wasn’t his real name, but he didn’t have anything better to go by.

“You mean other than how strangely invested he is in everything liberal for a white guy?”

“I mean, he is gay,” Grantaire said, though he knew how little that meant.

“Still doesn’t mean he cares about women or colored people. I’d say most gay white men don’t, judging by what they talk about. It only seems to ever be about themselves,” Bahorel mused, taking a sip from his glass.

“Fair, but I was asking more about the secret past and possibly secret identity thing.”

Bahorel looked up. “Wait, this is a thing now? I knew he was hiding something big, but I didn’t know that you knew.”

“I knew,” Grantaire said with a shrug. A strange wave of embarrassment washed over him. He didn’t like the idea that his friends thought he was too love-struck to notice anything off about René. “Or at least I suspected something was fishy, but I never really put it into words because I wanted to trust him.”

“Ooh, are you talking about René?” Musichetta, who had finally arrived, asked. She slid into the chair next to Bahorel.

“Yeah, how did you know?” Grantaire said.

“Do you ever talk about anyone else?” she said. “Normally, I’d change the subject, but I’m curious about why you don’t trust him anymore.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust him,” Grantaire explained quickly because somehow, despite everything, that was true. “But I found a letter. It was addressed to a ‘Will Enjolras’, but it was clearly talking to René.”

“What was in the letter?” Matelote questioned as she approached the table with Gibelotte.

“Nothing terrible or anything,” Grantaire said, much to the disapproval of Gibelotte. She had never trusted René, openly pushing him away at first. Grantaire suspected that the only reason she tolerated him now was because Enjolras never intruded on the space of the group, and it was difficult to completely avoid someone her friend was in love with. “It was someone named Combeferre, from New York. He was just talking about all their shared friends and acquaintances back there and his opinion on the space race and Vietnam and that kind of stuff.”

“So it’s the name that concerns you,” Musichetta said. “Because if the letter was talking to René, then why was it addressed to a Will?”

“Exactly,” Grantaire said. “I guess maybe it could be a nickname or inside joke or something, but that’s not the only thing suspicious about him.”

“Well, even I caught some stuff,” Matelote said. “You ever notice how he never talks about his past? Parents and stuff, sure, but I don’t even know what university he went to. Every lawyer I’ve met or seen on tv seems to hold a great deal in where they went to school.”

“He mentioned to me once about how he used to be a pilot for PanAm,” Bahorel added. “I thought he was way too young to have gone through law school and flight school and had a job as a pilot, but I shrugged it off.”

“Remember how nervous he was when the police showed up at that demonstration a few months ago? I figured it was just because he was new, but I wonder if he could be a criminal or something,” Matelote said.

“That’s ridiculous,” Grantaire argued. “Who isn’t scared of the cops when they’re in that kind of situation? None of  _ us _ are calm.”

“We’re black,” Bahorel said. He glanced at Musichetta. “Or at least not white. We have far more to fear from the police than René does, and if he didn’t know it at that point, then he hasn’t been paying any attention at all. And we’ve all experienced consequences from being at protests and stuff before.”

“I know,” Grantaire said. “I didn’t mean to say that we in particular don’t have a reason to fear the police, but being scared of the police when you’re going up against them doesn’t make someone a criminal.”

“Either way, we can all agree that there’s something funny about that man,” Gibelotte said. “I’ve known it from the start.”

“Look,” Grantaire said, feeling more and more like this situation was slipping out of his control. He wished his friends would be a little less fast to turn on his boyfriend. “I don’t think he’s  _ evil _ . I just think he’s hiding something.”

“Why don’t you just ask him?” Musichetta suggested. “The worst he could do is refuse to answer you.”

Grantaire was pretty sure that René could do a whole lot worse than just not answer him. What if he was so angry or scared that he never spoke to Grantaire again? It was possible, if the secret René was hiding was bad enough.

“Girls! I don’t pay you to stand around and gossip with your friends!” Mrs. Hucheloup scolded. Matelote and Gibelotte jumped up, rushing guiltily back to their post.

“And, I didn’t come here to spend all night talking about a white boy, fishy as he may be,” Musichetta said. 

“Did you come here for a reason at all, or were you just bored and lonely?” Grantaire sniped.

She rolled her eyes. “Like you can say any better.” 

Grantaire merely shrugged. She was right, but he didn't want to admit it.

Bahorel leaned back in his seat. “Well, I have an interesting story. You would not believe what happened to coworker just before I left work. She was taking a smoke break when these FBI agents ominously slowed down in their car next to her.”

Grantaire stayed while Bahorel told a story about how his coworker thought she was going to get arrested but then found out that the agents were just very lost and needed directions. Eventually the conversation drifted along through different topics, others chiming in with their own stories or thoughts as the evening wound down.

“I’m just saying, law doesn’t mean crap when it comes to social attitudes,” Musichetta was saying. “I mean legally, I’m white because I’m a Texas Mexican, but do you think  _ anybody _ treats me that way?”

“Obviously,” Matelote said. “But that law just claims something and doesn’t offer anything to back that up. I’m not in support of laws that define people’s identity, but I am in favor of ones that directly offer protections and support to minorities, and I think those have the potential to do that a lot.”

“Those kinds are better than nothing,” Musichetta conceded.

“Closing time!” came Mrs. Huchelope’s voice from across the room. It was only their group left in the restaurant, and they had all been coming here for long enough that they knew it was time to get out.

After exchanging goodbyes with Matelote and Gibelotte who had to stay and help close up, the rest of them left. Bahorel went off in his own direction, but since Musichetta’s apartment was in the same direction as René’s place, Grantaire walked with her. Despite the fading sun, it was still quite warm out.

“Will you actually ask René about his past?” she asked.

“I want to know it,” Grantaire said. “I think... if we’re together, I should know at least who he really is, like his real name and everything. Good communication is key, I’ve heard. I won’t press if it’s too troubling, but this is a big secret, and I don’t want lies between us.”

“Grantaire! You’re making healthy decisions for once!” Despite her teasing tone, Musichetta sounded a little proud as she grinned at him.

“It’s René,” Grantaire said. “I want to put effort into making it work between us. I thought he did too, but I don’t know why he’s keeping something so big.” He looked at the cracked pavement beneath his feet and wondered if maybe this had all been destined to go wrong from the very start.

“Whatever secrets he’s hiding, don’t let him break your heart, okay? You deserve better than that.”

“I’ll try,” Grantaire muttered. He hoped that he wasn’t going to be doing something he would regret by opening this Pandora’s box with René.

“Well, good night and good luck,” Musichetta said as they approached her apartment.

“Good night,” Grantaire replied waving before she turned to unlock the front door.

The rest of the walk to René’s place felt too short. By the time Grantaire reached it, the sun had sunk below the horizon, though the sky was still bright.  Light was leaking through the window that looked out from René’s apartment. That meant René was home. Now was the time to act.

Taking a deep breath, Grantaire knocked on the door. He had been given a key to the place nearly a month ago, but when René was there, it felt more polite to knock.

Smiling, René welcomed him inside as he did every time that Grantaire visited. “Hello, Grantaire!”

“Hi,” Grantaire said. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton, like the hinges in his jaw weren’t working properly. For once in his life, he couldn’t make himself say anything.

“You would not believe what happened today,” René said. He went on about some work incident that Grantaire was too preoccupied by his thoughts to pay much attention to. Halfway through a sentence, he abruptly stopped. “Is everything good? You’ve barely said a word this whole evening.”

“What’s your real name?” Grantaire blurted out. It was the question that had been bugging him the whole night. The past was the past, and everyone had something to hide, even if most people’s secrets weren’t as big as René’s appeared to be. But names were current, and he didn’t want to call his boyfriend a lie. It probably wasn’t the best way to start asking René about his secrets, but Grantaire only realized that after he said it.

“What are you talking about?” René asked, too guardedly to be fully innocent.

“That letter you got,” Grantaire started before realizing that this wasn’t a good explanation either. “When I was in here earlier, I accidentally knocked over the files on your desk. I was just trying to put them back, I swear. I wasn’t planning on looking through them. But then I saw a letter addressed to a William Enjolras. And it was written to you. I knew you’d been hiding something, and I figured you would tell me when you were ready, but... I mean this looks really suspicious.”  _ Please tell me it isn’t something big _ , Grantaire thought.

“You saw a letter Combeferre sent me,” René said. His expression was too blank. Grantaire had never seen it like this. Panic welled up in him, certain that he had stepped too far this time and now everything would end. Maybe their relationship had been too good to be true. 

Grantaire nodded.

Then René’s frozen exterior broke, and he looked just as scared and uncertain as Grantaire felt. His sudden lack of confidence made him seem almost childishly young. “I was going to tell you eventually, I really was. Soon. I was going to tell you soon. I’m not sure that you’ll want to stay with me after you know, but I owe you the truth.”

“Did you murder someone?” What else could be so terrible that René thought Grantaire would want to leave him? Grantaire didn’t actually know how he would react if René answered yes. He probably would have had a good reason for doing something like that, Grantaire figured. In such a situation, Grantaire would need to hear René’s explanation before deciding anything.

René shook his head. “No, but...”

“It wasn’t something that happened  _ to _ you, was it?” Grantaire asked softly.

“No. Look, I’ll just show you. I hope you won’t think too harshly of me afterwards.”

“You’d have to do something truly awful to make me change my mind about you,” Grantaire said, following him into his bedroom. The expression René wore when he turned around to face Grantaire did not reassure him.

René knelt down to pull a suitcase out from under his bed. Hesitantly, he flipped the latches and lifted the cover. Inside lay stacks of fifty dollar bills, filling up nearly half of the suitcase.

“Is this...?” Grantaire couldn’t hide the shock in his voice. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

René wasn’t meeting his eyes. “I stole this money, yes. I forged checks and talked my way into being a PanAm co-pilot, getting all the pay and free flights, without any training beyond a book I checked out from the library. I’ve stolen over two million dollars. I’m not really a lawyer either, or at least I haven’t gone through law school, though that is my job. This is what I’ve been hiding from all of you.”

A thousand questions burst through Grantaire’s head. “I just started dating a thief?”

René flinched. “I don’t... I’m not stealing money any more. Unless you count my job as a lawyer that I did not rightfully earn, but I am doing all the work for it and I did pass the bar exam, so I suppose that counts for something.”

“Why?” Grantaire asked. He wasn't sure what he was asking in particular, but it seemed as good of a word to start with as any.

“I took all that money because I wanted to be the next Robin Hood or something,” he said. “But I stopped and moved here to Georgia to start a new life, a better life. I—I wanted friends I could stay around, and to make change I knew would be good. This money is what’s left; I just haven’t found a way to give it away all at once without looking suspicious, so I’m using it little by little,” René said, as if trying to throw all the words and justifications he could give to erase anything bad Grantaire might think of him. “I needed to leave PanAm anyway, because the FBI was after me, and I—”

The phone from the living room began to ring. Both of them froze.

“I’ll just get that and leave you some time to think about this!” René quickly said, fleeing the room.

Now that he had a moment to process everything, Grantaire knew that none of it was quite as bad as he had feared. Somehow, it didn’t seem too surprising for René to have done all he that he did. Imitating Robin Hood was just the kind of fierce, idealistic thing that René would think was a good idea. Grantaire knew that René was clever and a smooth talker, but he hadn’t realized that René would be able to get away with impersonating a pilot and lawyer and stealing millions of dollars. Beneath his shock and worry, all Grantaire really wanted was to know more about everything René had done and what his past actually was.

Having come to that decision, Grantaire left the bedroom. “I don’t need time to think, I just want—”

But René had already picked up the phone and a nervous voice was coming through it. “—don’t have much time. This is the phone number you gave me, right?”

“I’m here, Feuilly. What’s wrong?” René asked.

“The FBI had us locked up for a couple of days. We’re all fine—”

“What?! Are any of you hurt in anyway? Was it—what’s—?”

“I said we’re fine,” Feuilly interrupted. “Listen, they figured out that we had regular communication with you. There wasn’t any proof that we knew you were a criminal, so they released us eventually.”

“You make it sound like you knew I was a criminal before they told you.”

“We had our suspicions. Look, it doesn’t matter. The FBI are after you. They have your address. We tried to stop them, but they had all the warrants and everything, so they just took one of the letters you mailed us and got it from there. We would have called you sooner, but we just got out. I’m so sorry. If you’re at your apartment, you’ve got to leave. As soon as you can!” Even as muffled and crackly as Feuilly’s voice was, Grantaire could hear the urgency and fear in it.

“I’m so sorry I put you through all that,” René said. “I didn’t mean for this... But I guess it doesn’t matter. Thanks for the warning.” He placed the phone back down, and for a second he just stood there, exhausted and defeated. Then he jumped up and rushed back into the room.

“René! What are you doing! We need to go!” Grantaire’s dreams had come true so recently when he learned the man he was in love with loved him in the same manner. He refused to let it all be destroyed so quickly. There had to be some other way. Maybe they could escape the law and live happily together. There had to be  _ something _ . It was all happening so fast, but Grantaire knew he didn’t want to let go of the happiness he had found with René.

René leaped out of his room, the suitcase full of money in one hand. Part of a tie was sticking out of the corner. “You said you wanted to know my real name—it’s Enjolras Williams.”

“Enjolras...”

He stuffed a wad of bills in Grantaire’s hand, before rushing around the room picking up various things around the apartment and stuffing them into his suitcase. “Take that money. Maybe we could meet at the airport and buy tickets to someplace far away. Just please don’t tell anybody about me, not even your friends at the Corinthe.”

Despite having just thought of moving somewhere safe with nobody but Ren— _ Enjolras _ , hearing it out loud made Grantaire suddenly very afraid of leaving behind everything he knew. “But—”

“Please, Grantaire.” Enjolras stopped in front of him, grabbing his hand. “If you don’t want to, I understand completely. I’d miss you, but it would be a dangerous life to lead with me, and there wouldn’t be the kind of stability you’re used to. I’d never ask you to leave your life behind. Just make sure the cat is taken care of, okay? I need to go now. I’ll be at the airport on the morning a week from today. If this is goodbye, I love you and always will.”

“I’ll be there,” Grantaire said, even though the idea terrified him. He wasn’t meant for a life on the run, but he also didn’t want to lose Enjolras. “I love you too.” His voice cracked. Fighting every instinct that made him want to cling onto Enjolras' hand and pull him into the tightest hug he had ever given, Grantaire managed to release his hand.

A sharp rapping on the door made both of them jump. “FBI, open up!”

“I’ll be fine,” Enjolras promised, catching his chin for a hurried but heartfelt kiss. He rushed back into his bedroom.

“Open up!!”

Grantaire wondered if he should answer them, if it would stall them long enough for Enjolras to get away. He took a step forward.

The door burst open, revealing four men in dark suits, guns drawn.

“Where is he?” the oldest, fiercest looking one demanded Grantaire.

“Uh, who?” Grantaire stuttered, knowing that his fear gave his ignorant charade away. Hoping that they hadn’t already noticed, he stuffed the money Enjolras had given him into his pants pocket. He wasn’t sure if his heart had ever beat faster in his life.

The other three pushed past him into the apartment.

“He’s gone!” the bald one shouted from Enjolras' bedroom. The window was open, allowing the evening breeze to ruffle the curtains. There was no other sign of him in the apartment.

“You know the occupant of this apartment,” the oldest agent stated, giving Grantaire such a terrifying glare that he couldn’t think to lie and protest. “Who are you?”

“I—I’m Grantaire,” Grantaire said, before he could think better of it.

“What name did the man who lived here go by? If I find out you’re lying, I will have you arrested for obstruction of justice.”

“Javert, take it easy,” the shortest agent said. “This man is terrified; he doesn’t look like an accomplice. Besides, that isn’t Enjolras' style. He works alone.”

“He just missed catching the guy, Joly,” the bald agent said. “He’s bound to be a bit antsy.”

Javert growled under his breath, but his stance grew a little less aggressive. “What was the name of the person who lived in this apartment?”

“René Williamson,” Grantaire replied after a moment of hesitation. This was nothing they couldn’t easily find out, and Grantaire preferred not to be arrested.

“What are you doing here, this late at night?”

“It’s only nine,” Grantaire said, unable to stop his mouth. He froze, worried that they would become angry after he corrected them. Nothing happened. “I’m his friend. He’s a lawyer, and he helped me out once.” Telling the truth, that they were lovers who had met during a protest would probably not go over well, Grantaire figured.

“Then why did he give you that cash you hid in your pants when we arrived?” Javert’s voice felt deceptively calm.

“It was a bet!” Grantaire blurted. It was the first thing he could think to say. “I just won a bet when you showed up, and I thought it would be pretty suspicious for me to be holding cash in a white man’s apartment, so I hid it. I swear I didn’t help him commit any crimes. I didn’t know he was wanted by the FBI until just now, I swear!”

“Quit babbling,” Javert sighed. “Come on, team. We’ll find our answers elsewhere.”

For a moment, the other agents looked just as surprised and confused as Grantaire felt.

“But—” the youngest agent started. Joly elbowed him, and they all followed Javert out. 

Terrified and relieved, Grantaire closed the door behind them and stumbled his way into Enjolras' bedroom and collapsed on the empty bed. He would need to start figuring out how he could wrap up his life here in one week without anybody knowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musichetta calls herself a Texas Mexican because her family is descended from the Mexicans who were living in Texas since before it was part of the US. I don’t think that term is a concrete distinction from Mexican American, but I have heard ‘Texas Mexican’ used in this context before, though correct me if I’m wrong.
> 
> Historical legal and social viewpoints on race fascinate me, so even though this is only vaguely relevant to this chapter, I’m going to ramble about it for a bit. (Feel free to skip it if it isn’t your thing; this has nothing to do with the story.)
> 
> A lot of it conflicts with itself, and in some ways the concept of race is very fluid. Like Asian immigrants weren’t allowed to become naturalized Americans for a while because they weren’t white. But Thind, an Asian Indian, tried to argue that because he was from the upper class he was therefore a pure Aryan (as in Indo-Aryan, the people who moved into India from the Caucasus mountains thousands of years ago), so he was Caucasian and should be allowed citizenship. A Supreme Court case basically said that yes, he was “scientifically” white but not socially and denied him (and all Indians) citizenship. A Japanese man, Ozawa, also tried to use an argument for being white to get citizenship, but was shut down by the Supreme Court. 
> 
> Before that, some Indians, Syrians, and Armenians were given citizenship as white people by federal courts, but this didn’t always happen because not every court defined “white” the same way, which basically goes to show that scientific concepts of race are bullshit but the social impacts are huge. 
> 
> At the time, Mexicans were considered white by the law (and were therefore allowed citizenship) because a lot of them were part Spanish. I’m not entirely sure how black Mexicans or people from other Latin American countries were categorized. One Mexican man, Ricardo Rodriguez, was allowed citizenship because even though he definitely didn’t look white, he “knows nothing of the Aztecs or Toltecs, [h]e is not an Indian,” which implies Mexicans who were culturally indigenous wouldn’t be treated the same way, though views probably varied a lot between different courts and circumstances. But in basically every way, Mexican Americans were discriminated against and treated poorly and just generally did not have the privileges and rights as Anglo whites.
> 
> Most of this information comes from chapter 1 of Impossible Subjects: Illegal Aliens and the Making of Modern America by Mae M. Ngai in 2005.


	8. This End Could Be My Start

**September, 1965**

The airport was busy in the quiet hours of the early morning. Enjolras was waiting in the airport for either the FBI or Grantaire to arrive and decide the course of his life. For one endless moment, everything hung in balance. Anything was possible, and hope and fear tugged him in opposing directions, tearing his mind apart.

But then the FBI burst in, blocking off all exits. Enjolras stood up and allowed himself to be seen by the freckled agent with an oddly guilty look on his face. There was no point in hiding when he knew that he would be found eventually. He tried to banter with Javert, to somehow charm his way out or distract the agent, but Javert responded stiffly, giving Enjolras no room to manoeuvre. Then Grantaire interrupted, getting stopped immediately by the bald FBI agent.

“Enjolras!” Grantaire cried.

“We followed him, and he led us straight to you,” Javert said. 

Internally, Enjolras cursed. He should have known they might do that. He had left Grantaire alone in his apartment with the agents. Of course they had kept an eye on him and followed him. It was too late now to wish that none of this happened, that he could still be free with his boyfriend, working for a cause he cared about with people he liked, but somehow he still couldn’t let go of that shattered dream.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Grantaire said, looking horrified. “I would never sell you out.”

“I know,” Enjolras said regretfully. He hated that Grantaire thought Enjolras might blame him when it was really all Enjolras' fault. Grantaire didn’t deserve any of the trouble Enjolras had brought onto him. “Grantaire won’t get into any trouble, right? He didn’t do anything. He didn’t even know about me until the night you showed up.”

“He’ll receive whatever justice he deserves,” Javert said, his face unreadable. “As will you.”

Enjolras snorted. He knew of the corruption and bias in the justice system, especially against people who weren’t white. He didn’t have any faith that Grantaire would be treated fairly.

“What are you still fighting for?” Javert asked softly. Somehow, the way he said it, it didn’t sound like a challenge. “You’re trapped and surrounded by the FBI. You can’t go back to your life in Georgia. Your friends have led us right to you, and you’re wanted on every continent. There is nothing waiting for you!”

“I’m fighting for freedom,” Enjolras said, but it sounded hollow. He thought back to all the other times he had talked his way into a better situation, with Eponine, and Combeferre and Jehan, with Grantaire, and even an earlier time with Javert. None of them offered any insight to this predicament.

“Yours or ‘the greater good’?” Javert asked.

“Both.”

Javert sighed and turned back to the agents holding Grantaire. “Take him out of here.”

“Yes sir.” The bald agent and the short agent next to him began leading him away.

“Go with them, Pontmercy,” Javert said, and the youngest agent, the first one to spot Enjolras, followed the others away with one last guilty look in his direction.

“Be safe!” Enjolras cried, as Grantaire turned to look back at him one last time, hoping with all his heart that nothing bad would happen to Grantaire because of his mistakes. It was the closest thing to ‘I love you’ that he could say in front of the FBI.

“You too,” Grantaire shouted back, trying to look brave despite the terror on his face, and Enjolras knew that he was responding to both messages.

Javert turned towards the airport security. “Get out of here. I got this.” They gave him odd looks but obeyed. Even Enjolras was confused. It wasn’t like Enjolras was physically strong enough that he could fight his way past even one FBI agent, but less people did mean more opportunity to escape, and Javert wasn’t the kind of person who take that kind of risk.

“You haven’t made a single fake check for almost six months,” Javert said, once Grantaire was out of sight. “You’re getting tired of this too. It’s time to stop and face the consequences.” It seemed he wanted them to be alone so he could talk Enjolras into cooperation.

“But you’re right!” Enjolras said, latching onto the small opening Javert had given him. “I haven’t done anything illegal in six months. You should give me a chance to rebuild my life and fix my mistakes.”

Javert raised an eyebrow. “You’ve evaded arrest and impersonated a lawyer.”

“But nothing  _ major _ , right? So that proves that people can change. It proves that  _ I _ can change. The things you want to arrest me for, I’m not doing anymore. Just let me go free, and I will never do anything to get on your radar again. At least not for breaking the law,” he added because he did not plan on living too quiet of a life.

“Do you think I’d do that? Just let you go without facing the consequences of your actions?”

Everything Enjolras knew of Javert pointed to ‘no’, but he couldn't say that. “I just want my happy ending,” he pleaded. Logic no longer fueled his efforts in getting out of the situation.

“It isn’t that easy,” Javert said. “I can’t let you be the exception to the law just because you think you deserve better.”

And suddenly Enjolras felt guilty. He knew he was a privileged, rich, white boy who was just disadvantaged enough to feel entitled to a happy ending. It seemed almost childish to hope for everything to work out in his favor. And even though he was only eighteen, he had spent long enough acting as an adult that he should have been more mature. So many others didn’t even get as much of a childhood as he did.

Why did he deserve freedom when so many others didn’t get treatment anywhere near as good as the one he was getting even now? It wasn’t because he was somehow better, more enlightened than the rest of the human race because his goal was to help people who he thought needed it. That way of thinking only led to an inflated ego and condescension to the people he was trying to respect.

Maybe he didn’t  _ deserve _ happiness, but surely he deserved to be able to want a good life and use every method capable to achieve it, as long as it didn’t come at the cost of others. Enjolras would never pretend that he wasn’t lucky, but just because others had it worse didn’t mean that he couldn’t try for more. He pushed away the lingering guilt and brought his attention back to Javert.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Enjolras said, remembering their Christmas conversation. When he had said it back then, he had thought that stealing was the only thing he knew how to do that would make a difference. This was no longer true. His time in Georgia working with the Civil Rights protesters had taught him a lot. Money had given him power that he had used to make his mark on the world, which was all very well, but Enjolras couldn’t rely on that forever, and the way that he used the stolen money could only do so much. For most issues, Enjolras would forever be an outsider trying to offer a little support, so having a personal connection to the individuals and communities he wanted to help was vital. Throwing money at a problem didn’t make it go away, even if it could help.

Even after that realization, he had been so selfish. Participating in the protests in the South had been more to better himself than to better society, at least at first. Half a year had changed that, but it still didn't erase his imperfections and potential to go against his ideals, even if by accident. He didn’t know how he could continue without the chance to strive to do even better.

“That’s not true,” Javert said, and maybe it wasn’t. Enjolras had stopped one thing before, even though he had once believed he never would. “I’m giving you an option to stop right here.”

“I don’t  _ want _ to stop,” Enjolras said which was more true. He wouldn’t admit it to anybody, but a desire to live a life not on the run but with Grantaire and his friends had partially influenced his change of heart. He wanted to make his life worth something, to leave the world a better place than he had come into it. But he also wanted to be able to spend time with the people he loved; to send his friends letters, knowing he would be able to receive ones in response. “I have too much to lose, I can’t stop now.”

“It isn’t hard,” Javert said, even though they both knew that it was. “Just put on these handcuffs and let the authorities handle the rest. It’s not  _ you _ who will be filling out all the paperwork.”

“And it’s not you who will be stuck in jail for years,” Enjolras said, more petulantly than he had intended to.

“I’m not the one who stole millions of dollars,” Javert said. 

Enjolras had no response to that.

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Javert said. “I promised to tell you that your mother said she’s sorry.”

Enjolras stared blankly at him, his heart feeling like someone had shot an arrow through it. He hadn’t thought about his parents much in months, and when he did, he never expected them to apologize. He didn’t know how he was supposed to receive that information. One apology, no matter how heartfelt, did not make up for everything that had happened.

“Is this supposed to make me give up?” he demanded. “Or to threaten me or something?”

“No,” Javert replied calmly. “I simply wanted to keep a promise.”

“Because that doesn’t—it’s not—you can’t just say you’re sorry and expect everything to be fine again.” His mind swirled with all the things he suddenly wished he could tell his parents, all the feelings of betrayal and hurt and love and anger and everything else.

“I don’t think your mother expects that. She wasn’t very cooperative for most of the investigation out of concern for you, but she did tell us why you left. She seemed quite guilty over it.”

“She should be,” Enjolras said. He had always been close to his mother, and having her turn away while his father yelled at him and told him to leave the house until he was ready to live a lie had broken his heart in a way he would never be able to forget.  

“Parents should never leave their children behind,” Javert said, a strange note of sincerity in his voice. “But just because you were wronged doesn’t excuse your actions.”

“I know that! That—that isn’t why I—”

Javert gave him a look. “What was it you said about not wanting anyone to feel the way they made you feel again?”

Enjolras sighed. He didn’t have the energy to argue this pointless argument when he knew explaining the exact moral reasons for his actions wouldn’t get him anywhere. “What’ll happen to Grantaire if I go with you?”

“If he hasn’t committed any crimes—and so far it looks like he hasn’t—he’ll be let go. I’ll make sure of that personally if you turn yourself in.”

“You put him into this situation and then use him to blackmail me into doing what you want?”

“I’m not blackmailing you,” Javert said in that frustratingly steady tone of his. “I don’t need to. I can call the airport security at any moment and force you to come. I’m just reassuring you. This isn’t the end.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked.

“I mean that you’re clever and you know more about check forgery than all of the FBI. We could use someone like you after your time in jail. Which will likely only be for a few years, not forever. You need to pay for what you’ve done, but it’s not the ending to your story either.”

“What’s the point of this?” Enjolras asked, no longer pretending to himself that he was trying to find a way out of this situation. “Why are you trying to make me come with you willingly? Why are you offering me job options after prison?”

Javert stared at him for a moment, considering his question. “I know a person who believes in second chances, who thinks that people can change. I want to give you the chance to prove him right. You’re still young, younger than he was when he should have been offered a second chance.”

Enjolras wasn’t sure if this was the truth or merely another ploy to manipulate him into turning himself in. “So what, you just do this to everybody? Turning myself doesn’t mean I’ve changed or anything. I could just be playing you for a lighter sentence.”

“Not everybody,” Javert admitted. “But everyone I have the opportunity to talk to, who I think has a shot at listening to me. Believe it or not, but I actually have your best interest in mind. Going to jail is a bad option, but you don’t have a better one. You’re too big of a criminal for the FBI to stop chasing you. Is that what you want, a life forever on the run? Turn yourself in, get a lighter sentence, and when you’re out, I’m sure you’ll find a way to rebuild your life.”

“Or you could just let me go free,” Enjolras pleaded.

“You’d still be on the run,” Javert said. “I’m not the only law enforcement agent after you, just the best one. So maybe if I stopped, you could breathe a little easier, linger a little longer in one place. But you wouldn’t be able to ever stop, you wouldn’t be able to talk to your friends at the newspaper or Grantaire ever again without risk of getting caught.”

This reminder of the injustice the FBI had put his friends through sparked anger in his heart, driving the encroaching darkness of defeat further away. “Why should I listen to you? You arrested my friends for no reason! You used them to find me!”

“Well, you can hardly blame us for following a convenient lead with Grantaire,” Javert said dryly. “But I am sorry about your friends. I only meant to talk to them, and if had been just my team, that’s probably what would have happened. But some of the other agents had other ideas.”

“I—” Enjolras said, scrambling for anything more to say, to fight back, to prove Javert’s bad intentions, to talk his way out, to find some way to live a perfect life with Grantaire and the Friends of the Rainbow and everything else he wanted from life. He had spent so long wanting to change the world for the better, but now he found himself selfishly wanting the company of the people he had grown to care about.

“This is your only way forward,” Javert said softly.

A thousand thoughts, a thousand possibilities ran through Enjolras' mind. Javert was right. There was no way out of this. Even if Enjolras escaped on his way to prison, what did he have waiting for him? Trying to fight injustice was a lot harder on the run, especially now he was trying other ways than stealing money. He wouldn’t be able to talk to or work with his friends. He wouldn’t have a life with Grantaire in it. Enjolras was trapped, and he was so tired of running.

“You’ll let Grantaire go free?” Enjolras asked quietly. “You promise he won’t be harmed in any way or held responsible for my actions?” Maybe it really would be the best option. Enjolras had no right to ask Grantaire to give up his home and all of his friends to be on the run for the rest of his life. At least this way, Grantaire would have a better chance for his own life.

Javert’s shoulders relaxed minutely. “I promise. He’ll come out of this perfectly fine.”

“Then—” Enjolras stopped, unable to get the words out. After all this time fighting, it was too hard to give in. There was no better option, he reminded himself. “I accept your proposal.”


	9. You Never Can Predict When Fortune May Smile

**September, 1972 (seven years later)**

The kitchen was flooded with the warm scent of roasted chicken when Valjean opened the oven door. With his mitt-clad hands, he carefully picked up the dish and set it down while Grantaire stuck a tray of garlic-buttered slices of baguettes into the now unoccupied oven. Quickly, so as not to lose the heat in the oven, Grantaire closed the door with a satisfying clang.

Valjean surveyed the messy kitchen counter. On one end, next to the chicken, was the sauce he planned to serve with it. Beyond that was one large bowl of fried rice and one containing salad. Nearby was a stack of plates and bowls and utensils for eating that had yet to be set out on the table along with a couple cutting boards and empty pans that had yet to be moved to the sink. Valjean would need to start clearing off the counter if he wanted any room to put the finished garlic bread when it was finished.

“I believe that this just about finishes the meal preparations,” Valjean said. “Thank you for your help, Grantaire.”

Grantaire shrugged awkwardly. “It’s really the least I could do, Mr. Fauchelevent. You’re the one offering to house and feed Enjolras until we get everything sorted out. You deserve thanks more than I do.”

“The house has been too empty anyway, now that Marius and Cosette have moved out,” Valjean deflected. Receiving thanks was always uncomfortable. Despite Cosette’s and Javert’s best efforts, he never could make himself believe that he deserved gratitude.

His response hadn’t been a lie, but he couldn’t give out the full reason for his help. When he had been released from prison, Valjean would have done anything for a warm welcome. And even though it seemed like a different lifetime, and he knew that Enjolras was better treated in prison than he had been, extending some courtesy was the right thing to do. It wasn’t the first time he had done something like this; a clever thief named Montparnasse came to mind the fastest. He was the reason Javert made Valjean promise not to bring strange criminals into his house on the grounds of it being too dangerous.

“Besides,” Valjean continued after only a small pause. “You and Enjolras are so closely tied up with my children and their friends. I would make this offer anyway, if only for the sake of our shared friendship.”

“Still, I really appreciate it,” Grantaire insisted. Then he added, “Cosette and Marius are doing fine, by the way. I dropped in for a visit yesterday. They seemed to have settled into their new house.”

“I expect I shall hear all about it over dinner. They said they would come at seven thirty.”

Valjean saw Grantaire glance at the clock over the dining table. It was just past seven.

After Enjolras' arrest, Grantaire had gotten in touch with Cosette’s newspaper publishing group. Valjean didn’t know the details, but he suspected that Grantaire wanted to find more about his lover who had hid so much of his identity from him. 

Though Grantaire himself tried (unsuccessfully in Valjean’s opinion) to distance himself from politics and rebellion, he brought the newspaper group into contact with his friends in Georgia. Somehow, with the help of Marius, Grantaire managed to drag the other agents who had been chasing Enjolras, Joly and Bossuet, into the tangled mess of friendships, alliances, and romances that loosely made up a multi-faceted Civil Rights group.

Since then, Valjean had gotten to know Grantaire fairly well, and this had all brought him to the point where he was preparing a dinner to celebrate the release of Grantaire’s boyfriend from jail, which they would eat alongside his daughter and two of the agents who had arrested him in the first place. With all the effort Valjean had put into making the meal, he hoped that it would not be underappreciated because of the tension in the room.

“Does Enjolras know that I’ll be here?” Grantaire asked after a couple of minutes. He pulled anxiously at his sleeve. Since arriving at the house earlier that day, he had been acting increasingly nervous.

Valjean shrugged. “I told Javert that you would be here, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t tell Enjolras while picking him up from prison. You wouldn’t expect it with Javert’s strict and precise character, but he really has a flair for dramatics.”

Startled, Grantaire looked at him as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to believe Valjean.

The oven beeped, causing Grantaire to jump. He opened the door to check if the bread had really finished toasting. After a quick inspection, he said, “I think they’re done now.”

As Grantaire reached for the oven mitts, Valjean eyed the counter. He had forgotten to clear it and there still wasn’t enough space for the large tray of garlic bread. Valjean stepped towards the salad to carry it to the table while Grantaire picked up the tray, and at that instant, the doorbell rang. There was only one person it could be.

Valjean and Grantaire froze.

“Quick! Answer the door! I’ll get this on the counter somehow. I don’t want Enjolras to be waiting!” Grantaire’s words nearly tripped over themselves in their rush to get out. He seemed to be on the verge of panicking, so Valjean figured that it would be easiest for both of them if he simply complied. Simply taking the hot tray from Grantaire with his bare hands would not be an appreciated gesture, he was sure.

Only after he left the kitchen did Valjean wonder why the doorbell had rang. Javert, after all, had the keys to the house, so they should have just come in.

Valjean opened the door with some trepidation, and came face to face with a white blond man who matched Enjolras' description perfectly. Valjean glanced past him, but Javert wasn’t there. That explained the doorbell, though it also raised several more questions.

“Um, Javert said he’s getting something from the car,” Enjolras said. “He sent me ahead.”

“Oh.” Valjean wondered for a brief moment what Javert could be getting before remembering his manners. Smoothly stepping back, he said, “Please come in. I’m Ultime Fauchelevent.”

“Thank you very much. I’m Enjolras Williams. Javert told me that his... friend? ...Partner?” Enjolras tried. Valjean closed the door behind them but made no effort to try to clarify his and Javert’s relation. Both words matched, in a sense, as did many others, but none seemed to precisely describe what they had between them.

After a moment of Valjean’s silence, Enjolras continued. “Um. Anyway, he told me you offered me a place to stay? I truly appreciate your offer beyond words, but I wouldn’t want to impose. I’ll be fine with—”

“It’s no imposition,” Valjean reassured him. He had heard many stories about the casual charm this man oozed, which he had used to get everything he wanted. None of that showed now in Enjolras' stiff, hesitant manner. “I have plenty of room and little company.”

“Well, I—” Enjolras started.

“Enjolras.” Grantaire’s strangled voice from the hallway stopped Enjolras instantly.

Enjolras stared at Grantaire for a full second before rushing past Valjean towards him. They embraced with the starving relief of two lovers who had seen each other only a few times in seven years.

Javert entered the house then, saving Valjean from the embarrassment of eavesdropping on a private moment. He smiled at Javert, giddy from the relief and joy of Grantaire and Enjolras' reunion. Javert almost smiled back.

Valjean stepped forward to clasp Javert’s shoulder for a moment. Javert’s arm was tucked behind his back and seemed to be holding something, though Valjean couldn’t see what it was from this angle. “Welcome home.”

Fondly rolling his eyes, Javert said, “I wasn’t gone long. You saw me this morning.”

“I don’t see why a welcome home has to mean anything big happened to you,” Valjean said, his grin widening. “I’m simply glad to see you again.”

Javert raised an eyebrow but said nothing more on that topic. “Cosette is coming, isn’t she?”

“Yes, at seven thirty,” Valjean replied, puzzled at the sudden question. “Why?”

“Before I picked up Enjolras, I went to a bakery and bought these.” Javert pulled out a box from behind his back and opened it to reveal several pastries—one of Cosette’s favorite desserts. “I had to get it out of the trunk but it took longer than I thought it would because I dropped the keys into the ditch.”

Valjean took the box from Javert’s outstretched hands. “Thank you! Cosette will be delighted.”

“You can stop politely ignoring us now,” Grantaire called from the other end of the hall. “I promise we’re done gushing for now.”

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Valjean said, and everyone turned to leave the entryway. Javert made his way up the stairs, and Enjolras and Grantaire went into the dining area. But before Valjean could return to the kitchen, there was a knock on the door. On the other side was Marius and Cosette along with two strangers, one about Cosette’s age and the other a few years younger in his early twenties.

Cosette looked awkwardly at him. “So. Um, this is Eponine and Gavroche. It’s a long story, but we recently ran into the kids of the people you took me away from when I was little. I know this isn’t the ideal circumstance, but is it okay if they have dinner with us?”

Valjean blinked at his daughter. The Thenardiers had been some of the worst people he had met, but children could turn out very differently from their parents. He trusted Cosette’s judgement, and he even trusted Marius’s instincts to protect her. If they had brought Eponine and Gavroche there, then he would not object. “Of course. You know I always make far too much food to feed the number of people I expect.”

Letting them come in, Valjean followed the four of them back to the kitchen and dining room so he could finish putting everything together. Grantaire and Enjolras were setting the table when he walked in.

“Can you get out dishes for two more people?” Valjean asked them while Eponine and Gavroche hovered uncertainly near the entrance. Grantaire and Enjolras looked up, curiosity in their eyes.

Eponine’s expression instantly switched from wary to disbelieving. “Jones?!  _ You’re _ the criminal whose release is being celebrated?”

Enjolras stared back, equally startled. “Ms. Ahuja?”

Marius glanced between the two of them. “Wait, you already know each other?”

“This must be your brother.” Enjolras looked at Gavroche, who glanced uncertainly at his sister.

“You remember?” Eponine demanded.

“Of course! You gave me such a scare when you told me you found out what I was hiding!” Enjolras was grinning now, less uncomfortable now than Valjean had seen him that evening.

“What are you talking about?” Marius asked.

Eponine and Enjolras launched into the story of how they met while Valjean cut up the chicken and carried it to the table along with all the other food. By the time Enjolras began explaining how he got arrested and what Marius and Cosette had to do with all of it, Javert had come back down out of his uniform, and the food was all in place.

“It seriously took you that long to decide whether or not to turn him in?” Gavroche demanded Marius. “I get stalling a decision, but six months?”

Marius blushed. “I’m sure Grantaire and Enjolras are glad that I waited that long.”

“Very true,” Grantaire said. “Marius, why didn’t you wait longer? Or better yet, never have done it at all.”

“Pontmercy,” Javert said from behind Marius, causing the man to jump. “If I ever find out you’ve been keeping information vital to an investigation like this again, I’ll have you fired. As it is, I should report you for this.”

“I—Javert! I didn’t know you were there! I didn’t mean—I mean, I’m sorry! I should have—I know that I—I won’t do it again!” Marius stammered, his face turning even brighter.

“Leave the poor boy alone,” Valjean gently chided. “We all know you won’t report him. You of all people should know about the conflicts that arise when morality and law cross. And I’m sure Marius has improved greatly as an agent in the seven years since then.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Javert grumbled, taking a seat next to the one Valjean was pulling out for himself.

Holding back a snort at Javert’s obvious dramatics, Cosette began scooping food onto her plate. Eponine and Gavroche hesitantly followed suit.

Since everybody in Valjean’s household had a different view on religion, it was agreed that everybody could begin their meal in their own way. Valjean was Baptist like his parents had been. For most of his youth, he had never been very devout, especially when he was in jail. After having his life changed by a pastor soon after his release, however, Valjean began to have much more faith.

While Cosette had still been with Fantine, she had been raised Catholic. The Thenardiers had taken that away from her, like they had many things. Her religion was one of the things she had set out to relearn after coming into Valjean’s care.

Growing up, Marius had been a strong evangelical Protestant, having been given no other option by his grandfather. Like many of Gillenormand’s other ideologies, Marius also rejected his religion. He had spent some time taking the exact opposite stance as Gillenormand and believed that all religion was terrible, but as he grew older and met more people with more views on the world, Marius had become more tempered in this sense. Marius was an atheist and wouldn’t change his mind for anything, but he firmly believed in everybody’s right to believe and practice whatever religion in any way they wished, as long as it wasn’t hurting or putting down other people.

Throughout much of his adulthood, Javert had always pretended to be vaguely Christian in order to fit into society, though he had never believed in it. He had not been raised particularly religiously. Currently, Javert seemed to be stuck in a sort of gray area of religion, but from what Valjean knew of him, not having set ideas of religion didn’t bother Javert much. He had always been a more practical person, and spirituality didn’t help much with arresting criminals. 

Besides the people who had lived in Valjean’s house, many of the friends they had belonged to other religions and traditions that came with different ways to act before and after a meal. All in all, it was easier to let each individual quietly do their own thing, or nothing if they wished.

Valjean said a prayer in his head and began to eat.

“This is delicious,” Enjolras said. “Thank you so much for the dinner.”

“Grantaire helped,” Valjean said.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said quietly, kissing Grantaire’s cheek.

Beside them, Marius was telling Eponine about one of his cases while Cosette and Gavroche were in a discussion about some cancelled tv show called Star Trek.

Surrounded by his family and some people who might in the future become family, Valjean smiled softly and rested his head on Javert’s shoulder. “It appears that things have turned out quite well after all.

“For now,” Javert said, a reminder that nothing lasted forever.

“Yes,” Valjean said. “But isn’t the present good enough?”

“I suppose it is.”


End file.
